


all the ficlets, or something

by toewsyourheart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 3+1, Alternate Captain Kane, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Baby Names, Blow Jobs, College, Comfort, Coming Out, Cuddling, Edging, Elevator Sex, Fake Dating, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Fucking, Getting Together, Gyms, Hand Jobs, Happy Birthday Jonny, High School AU, Ice Cream, Kazer Tweets, Kissing, Kissing on Ice, Kittens, Library AU, M/M, Marriage Talks, Misunderstandings, Mpreg, Neighbors, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pawn Shop AU, Pining, Post-Break Up, Puppies, Retirement, Rimming, School Reunion, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Titanic AU, Tumblr Shorts, Twitter, Weddings, doctor!jonny, hand holding, medical AU, mermaid au, nurse!kaner, rookies in love, work outs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 32,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4343357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of tumblr snippets that are honestly too short to be real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. royalty au-lies the portrait told me

Jonathan was wrong, okay. _Wholly_  mistaken. 

He’d been staring at portraits of Prince Patrick for years— _years_ —and he-he didn’t know, alright? Wasn’t aware that a portrait could be such a gross misrepresentation of the way a person actually looks in real life. 

* * *

 

When he was three years old, before he could really understand, his parents handed him a tiny portrait of a little blonde haired boy and said, “Jonathan, this is your future, and the future of our country.” 

He didn’t get it then, but as he got older, he slowly wrapped his head around what it meant, on the responsibility he was assuming here; he’s going to marry this guy one day, for the good of their country— _his_  country,  _his_  people—whether he likes it or not. 

Every single year, the portraits kept coming. At the end of November, his mother would call him into her bedchamber and say the same thing: “Your Prince’s portrait is here, my love.”

And Jonathan would stare at it—at his Prince—take in his gelled hair and dead eyes, his completely unamused face. 

It wasn’t until he was fifteen, though, the year before they were set to meet, that Jonathan voiced his concerns about the constant scowl on his face, because over twelve years, Prince Patrick aged, changed in ways, certainly, but his blank face remained. 

“But, Maman, why doesn’t he  _smile_? He looks more serious than  _me_!” Jonathan groaned, worried that maybe Prince Patrick didn’t want this—didn’t  _want_  to meet him, was truly dreading it, and that’s why he looked that way every year…

“Jonathan, my love, it’s an official portrait. Perhaps he’s been told not to smile, you never know. He’s handsome, I think,” Queen Andrée answered him with a shrug, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I think you’re just nervous because the time to meet is almost upon you.”

“Perhaps,” Jonathan mumbled, hauling the portrait to his room with all the others. Prince Patrick was handsome, sure, but the look on his face made Jonathan uneasy, like he thought their engagement was ruining his life already.

He gazed at that final portrait every day, searching for a little hope in Prince Patrick’s eyes, but he never found it.  

* * *

 

Jonathan said he was wrong, didn’t he?—so completely and utterly wrong; he can one hundred percent admit that now, standing in front of Prince Patrick.

Jonathan thought his eyes were dead, and they  _were_ , in the portraits; he’d looked at them enough to know. But live in the flesh, Jonathan’s never seen more life emanating from a single person.

Prince Patrick isn’t just handsome _._ He’s gorgeous.

Across the room, in front of King Kane and his Queen, Prince Patrick is teeming with energy, energy Jonathan couldn’t see in the portraits, practically bouncing around from foot to foot. His eyes are bright, so blue and so  _alive_. His curls are loose, a bit wild, not the slicked back, orderly look Jonathan’d grown accustom to.  

Jonathan’s staring at him open-mouthed—he can’t believe it, can’t believe he was so wrong—and Patrick meets his gaze with a soft, dimpled smile, one he thought he’d never see. Yet there it is, his  _smile_.  

It’s enough to make Jonathan a little weak in the knees, to be honest. Those dimples; his full, pink, perfect lips, stretched over pearly, straight teeth. God, his _mouth_. Jonathan can’t tear his eyes away from it. 

Queen Andrée nudges him forward. “Jonathan, you’re being impolite—go greet your Prince,” she murmurs, and Jonathan closes the distance between them, just as Prince Patrick is moving to meet him as well, smile unwavering. 

Five steps later, they’re face to face. Time to say words.

Jonathan’s so nervous he can barely breathe, wipes his sweaty hand on his pants before extending it to Prince Patrick. 

“I–I’m Jonathan,” he stutters out quietly, and Patrick chuckles–chuckles!–smile turning smug. 

“I know,” Prince Patrick says, taking Jonathan’s hand, and the spark he feels when they touch—it’s everything he never thought he’d get with this arranged marriage. His brilliantly blue eyes, smooth skin; Jonathan’s beside himself. 

“You look, uh, different than I thought,” Jonathan points out. 

“I could say the same for you, Prince  _Serious_ ,” Patrick says, waggling his eyebrows.

Jonathan’s taken aback, really. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what I’ve been calling you for the last five years or so, maybe. You’re always glaring at me in your portraits,” Patrick says easily, and Jonathan was not!— _he_ was glaring!

“Me?!” Jonathan starts, idly registering that they’re still holding hands. “You!–not me!” 

“You are aware I get your portraits first, right? Early May? I’ve just been following your lead, man,” Patrick says, and he smooths his thumb back and forth over Jonathan’s hand. Feels so nice. “But you’re–”

“You’re  _beautiful_ ,” Jonathan interrupts, and the blush that rises to Prince Patrick’s cheeks, his bashful smile, is better than anything Jonny could ever get from a portrait.

 


	2. awful aus-pistachio party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re my new neighbor and you’ve been listening to the same song on repeat for four hours now and when I go bang on your door to scream at you to either turn it down or turn it off you answer the door in tears. Wait right here, I’ve got a hundred warm blankets in my bedroom and ice cream in my freezer, let’s talk this out.” AU

Jonny yearns for the day, just a short, short time ago, when the apartment next to his was still vacant. 

Empty. Silent. Peaceful. 

He hasn’t yet laid eyes on the human who moved in on the other side of that paper-thin wall, but one thing Jonny knows already, is their taste in music is abysmal and infuriatingly repetitive. 

It’s been the same song. The same shrieking, whiny song, over and over and over for four hours straight—four!—at such an appalling volume, Jonny’s shocked the person’s hearing is still functioning. 

He wants to strangle someone, rip his own hair out, break something. 

However, since Jonny can’t afford to replace any valuable household items, likes his hair, and doesn’t want to do a stint in the slammer, he slings open his door and stomps over the three fucking feet to his neighbor’s, prepared to put a stop to this once and for all. 

It’s gone on long enough. He can’t be the only one on this floor, in this whole damn building, who’s losing their mind. 

Jonny balls his fist and bangs on the door until his hand hurts.

“Hey, open up there, eh?” he yells—bang, bang, bang. “C’mon, open the fu—”

The door creaks open, Jonny’s arm suspended in the air, and there, standing before him, is the most adorable, sniffling mess of a human Jonny’s ever seen, and all the anger drains from him in a single exhale.

The guy is short—shorter than Jonny by a few inches—but pretty thick, it appears, in spite of the baggy sweat pants and hoodie he’s wearing. It’s up over his head, too, draw strings pulled snug, both looking as though they’ve been gnawed incessantly, and there’re blond, unruly curls sticking out from beneath it, framing his face.

The tissue in his hand and those poking out from his hoodie pocket indicate he’s been crying, if his red-rimmed eyes and tear-tracked face weren’t enough to go by, and suddenly Jonny feels like the biggest asshole in the world, for adding any additional stress to what already looks like a terrible night for this guy.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, barely looking up, the toe of his socked foot digging into the carpet.

Jonny scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, thinking of what to say now that he’s lost his motivation to scream. All he wants is to help, to fix whatever’s wrong with his new neighbor.

Why that is, he has no idea, but the fact remains.

“Uh, are you?—um, the music was…” Jonny starts unsuccessfully. The guy finally makes eye contact with him, and man, they’re pretty—cool and blue, and under better circumstances, Jonny thinks they could be lively and bright, too.

He clears his throat and tries again.

“I’m Jonny. I live next door,” he says, because facts are easy, and extends his hand.

“The music was bothering you, huh?” the guy replies remorsefully, ignoring Jonny’s hand and shoving his own in his pocket. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“No, no, don’t be,” Jonny lies, floundering in the silence that follows. “I, uh—you want some ice cream? I’ve—you seem upset, and ice cream helps, I hear.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” the guy says, lips quirking up on one side, revealing a dimple that does funny things to Jonny’s stomach. “I’m Patrick.”

“Well, Patrick, how ‘bout that ice cream then? You interested?” Jonny presses, squeezing Patrick’s hand comfortingly when he finally places it in his.

“You got a blanket too? Ice cream makes me cold, and all mine are in the wash,” he answers, and Jonny would happily offer every blanket he’s got to keep this guy warm.

“Absolutely. Be right back,” Jonny says, zooming like lightning to grab his ice cream, two spoons, and the fluffiest blanket he can find from his apartment.

The door’s ajar when he returns, and he knocks softly before pushing it open the rest of the way.

“Patrick? I’ve got the—”

“In the living room,” Jonny hears, and goes on in.

The place is a wreck, which isn’t surprising, considering the state Patrick’s in himself, so Jonny doesn’t judge. He’s not exactly the tidiest human being on planet earth either, even on the best of days.

When he rounds the corner, Patrick’s curled up on the couch, knees to his chest, and much to Jonny’s relief, he’s turned that fucking song off.

“Can I—?” Jonny asks, gesturing toward the couch with the spoons, and Patrick nods, doesn’t spare Jonny from blowing his nose right there.

“Really, I’m sorry about the music. I just moved in here, and I don’t want everyone to hate me already before I’ve even met anyone,” Patrick rambles, and Jonny tucks the blanket around his legs, up over his knees.

“Nobody hates you,” Jonny says. “It wasn’t even that bad.”

“You’re not a good liar,” Patrick points out, and Jonny chuckles, embarrassed. It’s true, though; he’s not one for disguising his distaste. Face always gives him away. Every time.

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” Jonny diverts. The music is irrelevant at this point. His concern is for Patrick now, even though he literally met him less than five minutes ago.

“Want to open that ice cream?” Patrick counters, and Jonny does as he’s asked, passing it over.

Patrick grabs the spoon, fingers brushing against Jonny’s on the handoff, and digs in, not even glancing at the container to see what flavor it is.

He makes a face at the first bite.

“What the fu—What _is_ this, man?”

“It’s pistachio,” Jonny tells him, confused. It’s delicious, so he’s not sure of the issue.

“It’s weird,” Patrick says, smacking a little, like he’s trying to get a feel for the taste of it. It’s distracting, the way his tongue moves around, slides smoothly over his pearly teeth and full lips.

“Well, give it back then,” Jonny huffs, making grabby hands for it, and Patrick jerks the container out of reach.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna eat it anyway,” Patrick grins—grins!—and it lights Jonny up on the inside.

He made Patrick smile.

Patrick takes another bite, looking less displeased this time, and starts talking. He says a lot of things, asks Jonny some questions about himself.

They chat. It’s easy. It’s nice, more than; and when Patrick feels comfortable, he finally spills the beans.

“My boyfriend broke up with me,” he confesses pitifully, avoiding Jonny’s eyes, then he launches into the full story—the who’s, what’s, and why’s—and by then end of it, Jonny’s anger for the music has been redirected to this fucker who broke Patrick’s heart.

“So he just changed his fucking number and disappeared?” Jonny snaps, narrowing his eyes.

How could anyone ever do something like that to someone like Patrick? After that asshole is the one who cheated?

Holy fuck, Jonny wants to strangle someone again.

“Yeah, hence the Gotye,” Patrick mumbles with a shrug.

“What?” Jonny asks, puzzled—who’s that even?

“The song. ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’, you know? Everybody knows it,” Patrick clarifies. “I can play it again—”

“No! No. Don’t, please,” Jonny says much too quickly, and Patrick actually laughs at him this time as he takes another bite.

At this rate, they’ll have the pint finished off in no time.

Jonny goes for more himself, a bit dripping down on his chin, and he’s taken aback when Patrick’s hand comes up to wipe it away, fingers gentle against his face. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, eyes trained on Jonny’s, and Jonny doesn’t know if he’s losing his mind or it’s just wishful thinking, but the mood in the room seems to shift to something charged, thick and heavy.

It only worsens when Patrick licks the melted ice cream off his finger, sucking them into that pretty mouth.

Could be because Jonny can’t stop staring. Could be because Patrick’s eyes won’t stop drifting over Jonny’s chest. He thought he was making that up, but maybe not…

Jonny decides to press his luck.

“I just—I don’t need to hear that song again to know your boy was dick who didn’t deserve you anyway,” he swallows, hoping that wasn’t too offensive, though it’s true, and Jonny meant it wholeheartedly.

“You know another thing I’ve heard that helps?” Patrick starts, off topic, shifting to set the ice cream down on the side table.

“What’s that?” Jonny breathes out, swaying forward.

“They say, to get over someone, you have to get…you know,” Patrick smirks, leaving it open for Jonny to finish.

“Under a neighbor?” Jonny provides, so close to Patrick’s face he can feel his breath coming out in hot puffs.

“Under somebody better,” Patrick answers, pressing their lips together, and holy shit—

Patrick tastes like pistachios, and most satisfyingly, the moans the escape him later on sound a lot better than Gotye.


	3. gym bros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by: 
> 
> Reddit, what’s an unethical way you save money?
> 
> I pretend I’m gay. 
> 
> The gym I go to charges 50 bucks less if you register as a couple and not as a single. I don’t have a SO so my best male friend and I registered as a gay couple. The first day, the manager almost asked us to make out to prove it. He decided it was homophobic so he stopped. When we come in he’s always staring while we use the machines together, like he wants to catch us doing something sexual. 
> 
> Imagine your otp.

“He’s watching again, man,” Patrick huffs, sweaty from exertion, arms stretched above his head as he gathers his energy for another set of sit-ups. 

Jonny’s holding his feet, because that’s what bro-workout partners do, and Patrick hears him scoff. “So, who gives a shit?—you got two more sets.”

“I know, asshole, shut it,” Patrick shoots back, heaving himself up as Jonny counts each rep.

“One…two…three.” 

The thing is though, Patrick’s sick of it: this guy always skulking around, checking them out, obsessed with the gay couple in the gym (that secretly isn’t…or something).

How much longer can this realistically go on?

Patrick doesn’t know, but he’s willing to do whatever to expedite the process.

“—ten…eleven…twelve.”

“You should kiss me,” Patrick suggests, crapping out for a second on number fifteen, even though he’s got five more left. 

“ _What_?” Jonny squawks, and when Patrick goes for number sixteen, he belatedly realizes Jonny’s let go of his feet and flails a little, nearly kicking Jonny in the face. “Why on earth would I—”

“To get him off our backs,  _obviously_ ,” Patrick says, obnoxiously drawling out the last word, because it _is_  obvious. “He already wanted us to when we signed up–maybe doing it will make him stop creepin’.” 

“Kaner, I’m not gonna make out with you in this gym,” Jonny says flatly, grabbing ahold of Patrick’s feet again, and Patrick swears he hears an undercurrent of ‘but I might elsewhere’ underneath, but who knows. 

They’re weird, sometimes. It’s weird.

Patrick won’t lie and say he’s never thought about it—not to himself, anyway.

“Nobody said anything about making out,” Patrick replies as he finishes his second set, breathing heavy, Jonny’s hands strong, gripping tightly on his feet. “I just said a kiss—a little, harmless kiss for a great cause.” 

“Says you,” Jonny mutters nervously, then mocks, “a great cause, right,” and Patrick looks at him, heartbeat picking up when he sees Jonny’s wearing his contemplative face. 

Is he…could he be…considering it? Patrick decides to push the issue.

“Oh, so you like being stalked around the gym?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “He’s literally still watching us—probably thinks we’re having a lovers’ quarrel or some shit. Kiss me and seal the fuckin’ deal.” 

Patrick starts his next set, and Jonny’s stopped counting, so Patrick picks up his slack, since he has to do everything in this relationship, apparently—count for himself, suggest solutions to their stalker problems himself. Ridiculous.

His abs are really starting to fucking burn, and Patrick focuses on that, on each press up, on his counting; not on the slight heat pooling in his lower belly, thinking about Jonny actually kissing him…

“Four…five..si—”

Patrick didn’t see it coming. He knows he suggested it, but he did not see this coming. 

Jonny’s let go of Patrick’s feet with one hand, and now it’s hot around the back of Patrick’s neck, holding him in that bent position, in that perfect spot for him to—

They’re kissing.

Jonny is kissing him. Not just a little, harmless one either. This is real, unexpected and fucking–shit, his lips are warm, wet, and completely perfect against Patrick’s, and he doesn’t mean to, but he moans into Jonny’s mouth, scrambling to grab ahold of Jonny’s bicep to better hold them together.

Patrick’s eyes are closed, but he can  _feel_  that hard look of concentration, determination on Jonny’s face, but the movements of his mouth are easy, soft, and Patrick can feel himself getting hard, and—

They are making out in this gym right now.

Patrick licks into his mouth, because hell, they seem to be going for it here. Jonny groans, squeezing the back of Patrick’s neck until it’s just this side of painful, and much, much too soon, Jonny pulls away, flushed and panting, eyes blown black and lips red.

“Happy now?” Jonny breathes out, and Patrick swallows, nodding as he licks his lips, shamelessly wishing Jonny’s were still against them. 

“Shit,” is all Patrick can manage, and Jonny chuckles. 

“Finish your fucking sit-ups,” he orders coolly, but Patrick can see right through it; Jonny was just as into it, and they will be revisiting this later—hopefully for extended periods of time, with less clothes. 

Patrick does as he’s told, though it’s sorta hard with a semi straining against his shorts but alas, he perseveres.

 

They don’t catch the manager watching them again. Mission accomplished.

Both of ‘em.


	4. gym bros 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> follow-up to the word vomit that occurred before.

Patrick can’t stop thinking about it, okay. 

He tries, really he does, but he just can’t shake it, that feeling of Jonny’s mouth on his, warm and inviting. Patrick doesn’t think he can be blamed for it, honestly. 

Who wouldn’t be obsessing over the fact that their best friend and lowkey—okay, highkey—crush (Patrick feels like a twelve year old, thinking that word, but whatever) for the last, well, forever, just kissed the fuck out of them in the middle of a set of sit-ups?

It’d take someone with more will power than Patrick’s got, that’s for damn sure. 

It colors his thoughts throughout the rest of their workout, replaying over and over again—Jonny grabbing the back of his neck and just going for it, like maybe he’d thought about it before, too. 

Is Jonny thinking about it now? 

He’s lying down on the bench press with Patrick spotting him, of course, because, safety first, and Patrick’s absolutely dying, listening to Jonny’s grunts, the way he’s panting with exertion. He can’t help but imagine Jonny making those sounds in a different context. 

So, he’ll admit he’s a little preoccupied with the listening and the staring when Jonny finishes his last rep, and balks a little setting the bar back in position. 

Jonny’s arms buckle slightly, and the bar comes down on his chest, a startled “oomph” escaping his mouth. 

Patrick grabs it lightning fast and lifts it, to right the wrong he’s done. 

“Shit, Kaner, are you tryin’ to kill me here?” Jonny grumbles, rubbing at his chest. Patrick knows it didn’t hurt that bad, and he’s just being a baby, but still. 

“No! God, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, I just—” Patrick stops, words he can’t say stuck in his throat: I was thinking about kissing you again. 

Jonny gets up and turns to him, and Patrick sees a look of understanding in his eyes and feels like the air gets punched out of him when Jonny reaches up tentatively and rubs a delicate thumb over Patrick’s bottom lip. 

“Later,” he breathes out, eyes dark and intense, and Patrick shivers with it, cheeks flaming at the promise behind it. “We’ve got a workout to finish.” 

“A-Alright,” Patrick stutters, and does his best not to pop a boner every time Jonny so much as looks at him from that point on. 

* * *

 

After they finish with quite literally the longest workout of Patrick’s entire life, he and Jonny head to the locker rooms to shower up and head out. They came at a weird time today, so it’s just them, and Patrick’s body is thrumming with anticipation. 

The room is empty, but this thing between them—it’s taking up so much space, Patrick can barely breathe. 

Jonny strips down, and Patrick knows it’s not buddies to look, but his eyes keep involuntarily shifting in Jonny’s direction, drawn there like a moth to a flame. The hard, defined muscles of his back and shoulders; the smooth curve of his gigantic ass and thick thighs—they’re all things Patrick’s seen before, but never like this, never coupled with the idea that he could have it...

He tries to slow his breathing, keep his composure, and does his best to remove his sweaty clothes without giving away the fact that his hands are visibly shaking. Patrick never catches Jonny looking at him, but he doesn’t think he imagines the low grumble he hears, from somewhere deep in Jonny’s chest, as they step into their respective stalls. 

The steaming hot water of his shower is a welcome, refreshing break from the thick tension outside it, but fuck—when the fog clears, all Patrick finds is more want beneath it. 

And the object of that want just happens to be naked, too, right on the other side of a thin, thin wall. Right there, right—

The words are out of Patrick’s mouth before he can stop them: 

“Hey, Jon?” 

“Hmm?” he hears in response. 

“Is, uh—is it later yet?” Patrick asks, then holds his breath as he waits for an answer, eyes closed to keep the water out. It doesn’t take long for it to come. 

“I don’t see why not,” Jonny says, and Patrick rolls his eyes at Jonny’s forced nonchalance even as he’s breaking his neck to jump showers. 

When he pulls back the curtain, Jonny’s just standing there, dripping wet and obscenely hot, steam billowing around him. If it weren’t for the stupid fucking crocs flip-flops he insists on wearing in these showers, he’d be something out of a fantasy. 

Shit, what is Patrick even saying? Jonny  _is_  a fantasy, despite the abominations on his feet. 

He’s Patrick’s fantasy, and it’s about to come true. 

“You comin’ in or not?” Jonny smirks, and Patrick snaps back to the moment, stepping in under the hot spray, crowding Jonny in close. 

They’ve never—this is all so new, Patrick doesn’t know what to do next, doesn’t know what’s okay or where to put his hands, but he takes a chance, brings them up to slide along Jonny’s biceps, flexing his fingers against the slick skin. 

He glances up at Jonny through his lashes, and Jonny’s eyes are scorching, lips parted and chest heaving as he seems to be taking in all of Patrick, letting himself look now—now that they’re doing this. 

Patrick squirms under his gaze, wishing Jonny would just—

They’re kissing again. 

Jonny’s managed to surprise him with it twice now, but one choked groan and a split second later, he’s captured Patrick’s mouth in a kiss, got him pressed hard against the shower wall.

This kiss isn’t soft, not like the first; it’s greedy, bruising, rough—Jonny nipping at Patrick’s lips, tongue following after to soothe, and Patrick gives it back to him just as well, bringing a hand up to pull at the longer hair at the top of Jonny’s head, running his hands through it. 

Patrick explores Jonny’s mouth with his tongue as Jonny’s hands roam Patrick’s body, gliding over every part he can reach—his shoulders, back, hips, ass, and Patrick can’t get enough, arching into Jonny’s touch every step of the way. 

The only sounds in the room are the stream of water, the smack of their lips, and the labored, ragged sounds of their panted breathing. 

Patrick can feel Jonny’s erection pressing into him, knows full well that Jonny can feel Patrick’s own riding his thigh, and finally Jonny yanks his mouth away, mumbling as he kisses along Patrick’s jaw and neck. 

“You gonna fuckin’ touch me or not?” he asks, and Patrick moans at the thought of getting his hand, maybe his mouth, around Jonny’s cock, though that’d be a first. 

He’s willing to try it though, with Jonny. For Jonny. Anything.

“You— _ah_ ,” Patrick yelps as Jonny’s teeth sink into his neck, and Patrick would be lying if he said that pleasure-pain combo didn’t make his knees weak. “You want that?”

“Yes. Fuuuck, yes,” Jonny answers, pushing his hips into Patrick to punctuate his point. “Thought about this so much, Peeks.” 

That confession is all it takes to give Patrick the confidence to reach between them and grab ahold of Jonny, of himself too, and start jerking them off together. It’s probably not the most precise of handies, as Patrick’s never had two dicks in his grip before, but he makes it happen, and based on the sounds coming from Jonny, it’s working for him. 

He’s making these little hitching noises, jerking his hips forward with each stroke, and aided by the water and their combined pre-come, jesus fuck—it’s so good; a pleasure so deep sparking through Patrick, he can’t stand it. 

Jonny’s mouth is relentless, taking everything Patrick’s got for him, and when he comes, he slaps the shower wall, shouts into Patrick’s mouth, and that pushes Patrick over the edge, too, hearing Jonny wrecked this way, feeling Jonny’s cock pulsing in his hand. 

It’s a whiteout moment, and Patrick sobs with it, shuddering against Jonny through his orgasm as it ripples from head to toe. Patrick’s had plenty of sex, contrary to popular belief, but he’s never felt anything like this before, nothing quite this good or wholly satisfying. 

Jonny slumps against him when he’s spent, the shower wall cool against Patrick’s back, a jolting counterpoint to the scorching water, to the moment that just passed and their gasping breaths. 

Patrick trails his fingers along Jonny’s spine, and after a minute, Jonny starts laughing, a little out of his mind. 

“What?” Patrick prods, half afraid Jonny’s going to say this was such a joke or something. 

“Guess our phony gay membership isn’t all that phony, eh?” he asks, pulling back to card a hand through Patrick’s wet curls, looking sleepy and sated. 

“Yeah, I guess not,” Patrick laughs, and Jonny’s cuts him off with another kiss. 

Because he can. 


	5. kaner's kitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: jonny comes home to find kaner with a cat.

“Kaner?” Jonny calls, stepping into the house and toeing off his shoes by the door.

He’d left this morning for an early meeting, then went on to make an appearance at a local elementary school for a Toews Fitness Challenge wrap-up, before picking up a late lunch for them. 

Patrick requested Palace Grill, and though it’s not anywhere near acceptable for their diet plan, Jonny caved; he does that a lot, where Patrick is concerned. It’s a problem. 

Jonny deposits their food and his keys on the counter, and because Patrick still hasn’t responded, he calls out again. 

“Patrick?” he says, listening hard for any indication of where Patrick might be. 

Jonny hears the faint hum of the television–SportsCenter, of course–and that’s about it until–

Was that a fucking  _meow_? A meow, in their house? 

Jonny follows the sound into the living room, and what does he find? A clear explanation for why Patrick’s being so quiet and sneaky, that’s what. 

He’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, still in his running clothes, animatedly playing with a tiny, black kitten. 

A cat. There’s a baby cat in the house. 

Patrick’s dangling a shoe string around, trailing it through his legs and behind his back, letting the kitten follow, bobbing it up and down in the air so it’ll leap after it; and he looks absolutely delighted, like he’s never seen anything more adorable. 

It  _is_  pretty cute, Jonny must admit; well, mostly Patrick playing with a tiny animal is cute, really, but still–

“Patrick, what the hell?” Jonny asks, and Patrick jumps, looking up at Jonny with utterly-caught eyes. 

“Before you say anything,” Patrick starts, immediately on the defensive, scooping the kitten up into his arms and hugging it to his chest. “She was all alone, Jonny–cold and shivering in the bushes when I went for my run!” 

“Cold and shivering, eh?” Jonny smirks, walking around the couch to get a closer look. 

“Cold and shivering!” Patrick repeats, absolutely horrified at the thought, Jonny can tell. “I–I couldn’t just leave her.” 

Jonny squats down, brushes his knuckles over Patrick’s cheek to let Patrick know he’s not mad, before he pets the kitten. It nuzzles its little head into his hand, like it’s trying to butter him up, too. 

“I’m sure you couldn’t,” Jonny says, giving Patrick a ‘you know we can’t keep it’ look. 

“But why  _can’t_  we keep her?” Patrick whines. “She’s so cute, Jon–look at her wittle face.” 

Patrick holds the kitten out, right in Jonny’s face, and she licks Jonny’s nose with her tiny, sandpaper tongue. 

“We’re gone a lot,” Jonny points out, but of course Patrick has an answer for that. 

“Cats are self-sufficient!” he insists, eyes pleading. 

“You’re allergic, I thought,” Jonny tries, though he has a feeling resistance is futile here.

“Only dogs, you know that!” Patrick says, smacking Jonny’s arm. “C’mon, c’mon, c’monnnn. I’ll let you pick her name!”

Jonny studies the cat for a moment longer, then looks at Patrick, and well–

Jonny caves a lot where Patrick is concerned. He said that already…

 

**

 

“So…” Patrick drawls from his place in the floor later that afternoon. “About the name?”

Jonny really hasn’t given much thought to it, honestly. Been too preoccupied watching Patrick play with her.

“Ummm,” Jonny stalls, and Patrick looks aghast.

“Jonathan, this is our kitten. Are you not up to the challenge here?”

Patrick loves throwing the gauntlet down like that, knowing Jonny will always answer the call. Or do his damnedest, anyway.

He can’t think of anything besides that chick-flick, ‘Definitely, Maybe,’ Patrick made him watch the other night, with that actress–what’s her name? Isla…Fisher? Yeah, that’s it.

Jonny chuckles, because it’s pretty clever for a kitten, eh?

“Isle Fisher,” he says definitively, still very pleased with himself. “Because you know, she’s a cat, and cats–

“Like fish, yeah yeah, I get it,” Patrick says, eyes fondly amused. “You’re so fucking lame.”

“But you like it,” Jonny points out.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Patrick smirks, then starts murmuring to “Baby Isla” in his lap.


	6. high school au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and Jonny skip class.

Patrick is not feeling seventh period. 

He’s never feeling seventh period, or any of the ones that come before it, but as he sits in sixth-hour Biology, listening to Mrs. McGuire squawk on and on about cell apoptosis or whatever, Patrick decides he simply cannot finish the day or he’ll fucking die, too. 

He’s fidgety in his chair, per usual, eyes glued to the hands of the clock as they move at an absolute snail’s pace, when he hears a familiar, extra grumpy sigh of discontent. 

Patrick smiles to himself, taking comfort in the fact that he’s not alone in suffering, nor will he be alone in triumph when he skips next class. 

Jonny’s in the desk right behind him, probably fighting sleep, and Patrick feels a tingle of anticipation low in his belly, thinking about fucking off with Jonny—figuratively or literally—instead of suffering at school for another hour. 

He turns in his seat, ready to plant the idea in Jonny’s head so he can mull it over for the five torturous minutes they’ve got left in here; Jonny always needs a second to come to terms with Patrick’s master plans, since he’s such a rule following boy scout. 

When Patrick peers over his shoulder, he finds Jonny already looking at him through droopy, daydreamy eyelids, and Patrick can’t help but wonder what he was thinking about—surely not programmed cell death. 

He offers Patrick a small, half-miserable smile, and Patrick smirks back, mouthing, “Wanna skip seventh?”

Jonny gives him a quizzical look, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, so Patrick tries again, pointing to Jonny then back to himself. 

“You, me—let’s skip seventh.”

“What?” Jonny whispers, subpar lipreading skills shining through as brightly as Mrs. McGuire’s projector light, and Patrick rolls his eyes, ripping off a piece of notebook paper and scrawling ‘LET’S SKIP 7TH’ on it before subtly passing it back. 

Jonny studies it and nods immediately, mischievous grin stretching across his face as he folds the note and puts it in his pocket. 

Well, that was easier than Patrick thought it’d be. 

* * *

 

They nonchalantly slip out the back door after the bell rings and escape to the baseball field, bumping into each other as they book it across campus. 

“We better not get caught,” Jonny grumbles, like there’d be anything he could do about if they did, other than take his punishment, but Patrick goes the reassuring route instead, or something like that. 

“We won’t. Stop being lame.”

The dugout is bricked in at the back, perfect for hiding, and the baseball team won’t take the field for another couple hours, so Patrick knows they’ll be good there for a while. 

“Did you take any notes last period?” Jonny asks when they finally make it, and Patrick groans in annoyance. 

Jonny always does that in Biology; claims “the back of your big head distracts me, man,” so he can’t take any as a result, and then just copies Patrick’s. He also has a stupid habit of stressing over his responsibilities at the exact moment he’s neglecting them, like now. 

“No, I didn’t. That shit was fucking torture,” Patrick complains, kicking a rock across the field and stirring up a cloud of dust as they enter the dugout. “Get ‘em from Arty.” 

“They’re always half Russian, no way,” Jonny says, which is true; maybe even three-quarters Russian. Exchange students, man. 

“Well, snooze you lose, I guess,” Patrick shrugs, and Jonny playfully shoves him in the shoulder. 

Once they’re inside the thick, concrete walls, the space suddenly feels smaller, with the two of them alone. Not in a claustrophobic way, but in a ‘oh my god, it’s just us—now what?’ way.  

Patrick’s getting increasingly antsy, wondering what this little adventure is going to entail. It’s only been a couple days since they started—well, Jonny kissed him on Tuesday, you see, right on his fucking mouth, and Patrick almost came his shorts over it, is the thing. 

It’s opened up a whole world of possibilities that Patrick never knew were on the table, for himself, for them; it was unexpected and awesome, but it hasn’t happened again, and—

Patrick  _really_  wants it to happen again. 

His body is thrumming with anticipation, and when he spins around to look at Jonny, his dick twitches in his jeans because Jonny’s doing—he’s doing fucking pull-ups. 

The dugout has a few strategically placed steel beams that line its top, for stability or hanging bat bags or some shit, whatever; Patrick doesn’t know, exactly, but it’s irrelevant. 

What’s absolutely relevant, though, is that Jonny’s taken it upon himself to reach up, grab one, and start doing. fucking. pull-ups. 

His legs are crossed at the ankle, short sleeves falling down his biceps so Patrick can see the strain of them, the tension in his forearms as he rocks himself up and lowers back down—once, twice, three times—grunting with exertion, these hot, breathy huffs escaping his mouth. The most alluring part though, comes when his shirt rides up, exposing the hard lines of his stomach, the cut of his hips as his shorts hang low. 

God, Jonny works out so much, it’s ridiculous, and Patrick’s wants to put his mouth all over the evidence of it. He’s literally about to die here, so after Jonny does two more and drops to the ground, Patrick chirps him, of course. 

“Weak. Only five? I can do more,” he challenges, swallowing the lump in his throat, and Jonny raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh yeah? Can you even reach the bar?” 

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Patrick says, and he does have to jump, which is a little less dignified, but yes, he can reach it, fuck you very much, Jonny. “Bet I can do ten.” 

“Well, if I was as puny as you, I probably could, too,” Jonny counters, and Patrick kicks at him as he dangles there. 

“Shut up,” he shoots back, offended. 

Patrick’s not puny, okay. He’s not as thick as Jonny, because we can’t all be built like brick-houses, but Patrick works out, too. They both have hockey to play, and Patrick might fuck around when it comes to school, but not when it comes to being the best. 

He steadies himself and starts in on proving Jonny wrong—one of his favorite pastimes—and he can feel Jonny’s eyes on him as he pulls himself up. Patrick refuses to look down, lest he meet Jonny’s intense stare and screw up his focus, so he powers through, counting aloud for emphasis. 

Patrick’s just reached number five when he hears Jonny breathe out, “Patrick,” then feels him, right there. 

He’s—holy shit—Patrick’s at the top of a rep, and Jonny’s crowded into him, chest to Patrick’s mid-section, and wraps arms around Patrick’s thighs, right under his ass. 

“Jonny, what’re you—” 

“Let go,” Jonny orders, voice rough, and Patrick has no idea when that started being a thing that turns him on, but alas. “I got you.” 

Patrick shivers and then complies, releasing the bar to let his hands come down and immediately tangle in Jonny’s hair, mostly for something to steady him, but also because he suspects where this is going and just wants to. 

Jonny loosens his grip around Patrick’s legs, just enough to accommodate Patrick’s movement as he slides slowly down Jonny’s body, pressed tightly front to front, until their mouths are even. Then Patrick goes for it, circling his legs around Jonny’s waist instead of planting them on the ground, Jonny’s breath hot as he groans and crushes their lips together. 

The kiss is hot, just like the last, hormone-filled and frantic, and Jonny adjusts his hands, cupping and squeezing Patrick’s ass as he walks them to the fence, pushing Patrick against it to take some of his weight. 

The metal pokes into his back, but Patrick can’t be bothered with it. Right now, all that matters is Jonny’s mouth on his, the slick, warm drag of their lips as they move together. It’s a little sloppy, but Patrick wouldn’t have it any other way; tongues tangling together, Jonny sucking at his lower lip, Patrick’s tongue tracing his top one. 

Jonny moves to Patrick’s jaw, and Patrick tugs at his hair, mumbling curses as he goes, absolutely dizzy with want, certain there’ll be a mark there when he’s finished.

“Fuck, Jonny, fuuuck,” Patrick moans, bringing Jonny’s mouth back to his, and in no time they’re panting, breathless and worn out and flushed all over. 

“Your  _mouth_ , Kaner,” Jonny gasps quietly, and if his looks anything like Jonny’s; bitten, red, and a little swollen, god—

Patrick’s so close to the edge, if someone so much as breathed on his dick, he’d come, and he assumes Jonny’s not much better off, but he doesn’t know if they’re there yet, ready to push this to that next level. 

Once dicks are involved and you get off together, shit’s really real, you know, so Patrick can wait, as much as it pains him. Maybe he can talk Jonny into coming over later, breaking some more rules and sneaking up to the roof after his parents have gone to bed. He’s good at talking Jonny into things. 

Jonny brings him back to the moment, resting their foreheads together, chests heaving as they gather themselves, and Patrick chuckles, releasing his legs from Jonny’s waist and easing to the ground. 

“You just didn’t want me doin’ more pull-ups than you, huh?” he teases, wrapping his arms around Jonny’s neck, not ready to let him go just yet. 

“Yeahhh, somethin’ like that,” Jonny murmurs, grin sheepish, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth that tells him everything he really needs to know. 


	7. knocked up [high school au 2]

The images are vivid, seared into Patrick’s memory. 

He doesn’t even have to try to conjure up those feelings, from their first time. It’s as if Jonny’s body—his mouth, his fingers, his cock—is still there, blanketing Patrick’s; familiar, yet new and fumbling with nervous energy. 

His cheeks still flush hot when he thinks about it. 

They waited so long—almost a full year—after officially deciding they wouldn’t be kissing anyone else, only each other, to go all the way. 

Patrick wanted them to be ready. Jonny wanted them to be sure. 

They were both of those things, when the time came; there’s no questioning that. Patrick needed to give himself to Jonny, wanted Jonny back, all of him, just as fiercely. 

They planned it out. They were careful. 

It was perfect. 

Patrick can remember every detail—every touch, every kiss, every sound. 

Jonny between his spread thighs, breathing hard, using too much lube to slowly and gently finger him open, Patrick squirming under his touch. He’d stop sometimes, when his hands were trembling too much, when he felt beside himself and overwhelmed, to lean up so Patrick could kiss him back to calm confidence, murmur praises to him: 

“Feels so good, Jonny. Want more,” Patrick told him, both because it was entirely true, and because Jonny needed the reassurance that he was making Patrick feel good, getting it right. 

Jonny’s first press inside was electric, the sensation and stretch blindingly good, pleasure surging through Patrick in every direction, through all parts of his body, it seemed, and—

Christ, did Jonny get it right. 

Patrick was a sobbing mess as he reached his orgasm, much too quickly, never in his life feeling so full, so cherished, so complete. 

“Oh, fuck, Patrick, that’s it, baby—m’gonna,” Jonny choked before he came, too, eyes shut tight, hips shuddering, and Patrick could feel it, Jonny’s cock swelling, pulsing inside him. 

He remembers wondering what it would feel like ungloved, skin-on-skin, nothing separating him from the smoothness of Jonny, hot and hard inside.

Not much time passed before he found out. 

Patrick didn’t think anything could top their first time, but he learned a lesson that night. 

“Let’s—we don’t need that. Do we, Jon?” Patrick had asked him, hopeful, hand circling Jonny’s wrist to stop him when reached for a condom on the bedside table. 

Jonny’s eyes went wide in response, Patrick can still see it clearly; that initial shock quickly fading into something intensely loving, then to something wanting, urgent and needy as he moved to capture Patrick’s mouth in a kiss, mumbling, “No, I don’t think we do.” 

The feeling of Jonny coming freely inside him, that’s what pushed Patrick over the edge that night. 

It wasn’t just the slick drag of Jonny’s cock, though that was fantastic in itself. It wasn’t just the way Jonny was perfectly nailing his prostate with each thrust, though that left Patrick moaning, pleasure sparking through him, heat building deep in his belly all on its own.

No, what did it for Patrick was having Jonny fill him up, really and truly fill him up, with the evidence of how much he wanted Patrick, loved him, loved this—his face, his words a reiteration of that fact: 

“Patrick, I can’t believe you let me—you feel so good,” he gasped. “I fucking love you.” 

* * *

 

Patrick remembers it all, just like it was yesterday, as he sits on the toilet now, head in his hands, tears silently streaking down his face.  

Just like their first time, the sight of those blue parallel lines, on his fifth positive pregnancy test, will be seared in his memory, too. 

Forever. 

It was impossibility, he thought, since the gene for male pregnancies don’t typically express, if present at all, until age eighteen, yet here he is:

Pregnant at seventeen. 

How will he tell his parents? How will he tell Jon—

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and Patrick startles, so deep in his own head he’d forgotten Jonny was supposed to be coming over. 

What fucking timing. 

“Pat, you in there?” Jonny calls softly. Patrick had told Jonny he wasn’t feeling well, but now that he knows what’s going on, he can recognize that assessment for the understatement it truly is. 

Nothing will be the same after this, going forward. Nothing. 

“Yeah,” Patrick sniffles, wiping his eyes frantically, which will only make them redder, he realizes. 

“You okay? Can I—can I come in?” he asks, and Patrick doesn’t even bother to move the tests off the counter. 

“Mhm,” Patrick answers, waiting for the moment of truth. 

Jonny slowly opens the door, eyes going right to Patrick, skipping over the indicators of their complete and total fuck up. His concern is immediate. 

“What’s wrong, Patrick?” he asks, walking over to place a hand on Patrick’s back where he’s hunched over. It’s hard to look Jonny in the eye, but Patrick makes himself do it anyway. He’s never hidden from Jonny, and ashamed as he is, he won’t start now. 

“Jonny, we—I,” he starts, trying and failing to choke back the fresh tears threatening to spill. “Everything is ruined.” 

Jonny’s on his knees before Patrick registers his movement, pushing in between Patrick’s legs, cupping his face. 

“What do you mean? What happened?” Jonny asks, searching Patrick’s face, his body for signs of trauma, eyes scanning the bathroom for signs of danger, some physical threat. 

“Jonny, I’m—when we. You’re gonna be—” Patrick stutters, not sure how to phrase what he knows he has to say. “—I’m so sorry.”

“Patrick, you’re scaring the shit out of me,” Jonny tells him, gently shaking Patrick’s face a little to get his full attention through the tears. “What is it? Are you, breaki—”

“No! No, I’m—no, Jon,” Patrick interrupts, hating the fear he saw flash across Jonny’s face. He clutches Jonny’s wrists until it hurts. “I’m pregnant.”

Jonny recoils a little at the words, and it stings, but it’s to be expected. 

Patrick expects worse, waits for it, in fact, but it doesn’t come. 

“How?” Jonny asks calmly, though his eyes are wild, looking past Patrick like he’s remembering the first time, too, just a few weeks ago, when they stopped using condoms, doing the math in his head. 

“I—I don’t know,” Patrick answers, then amends, “well, I know, but I don’t fucking know.” 

“You’re s-sure?” 

“Five tests,” Patrick says, nodding in the direction of the sink. Jonny doesn’t even bother looking. 

“Everything’s ruined, Jonny,” Patrick sobs. “We fucked up so bad. What’re we gonna. How are we gonna tell our parents? What are we gonna fucking do with a baby?”

He’s hysterical, rambling, and he knows it, but he can’t stop. He needs something, anything, needs Jonny to—

Jonny pulls Patrick into his arms, as if he was reading Patrick’s mind, squeezes him hard, strokes his hair. 

“Shhhh, Patrick, baby, it’s gonna be alright, okay?” he croons, pressing his lips to Patrick’s temple. “We’ll tell them together, and I’ll be—I’m not goin’ anywhere. We’ll figure it out.” 

“Please, Jonny, just don’t hate me for this, I didn’t mean to, I—” 

“Patrick,” Jonny cuts him off, pulling back to look him solidly in the eye. 

All Patrick can think about is the fact that he’s the one who suggested they ditch the condoms, that this is his fault. 

“Don’t ever think that I could,” Jonny pauses, face contorted like it would pain him to say the words ‘hate’ and ‘you’ in the same sentence. “I love you so much, and I’m gonna be right here with you, by your side.”  

Patrick feels like he can breathe a little more easily, like everything isn’t folding in on him now, despite the fact that everything is still fucked. 

“So you—you don’t want to...you still want to be with me?” he asks, for clarification purposes. Jonny said he’d be here, but in what context?

“Patrick, of course I do,” Jonny tells him, kissing his cheeks, his mouth—each corner of it, then square on his lips. “It was. It was always gonna be this way, right?—you and me, right?” 

Patrick nods, throwing himself into Jonny’s chest, and he cries, tears soaking Jonny’s shirt, hands fisted in it at Jonny’s back, and holds on for dear life. 

 


	8. patience [mermaid au]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mer!kaner and five year old!jonny

Jonny’s a pretty good fisherman, he thinks.  

His dad has taken him almost every weekend of the summer since he was three, so he’s had tons of practice, and practice makes perfect, his mom always says. 

When he turned five years old in April, Jonny got to start baiting his own hooks. He’s pretty okay at that, too, but could use more practice. 

He poked himself once, and it bled a whole lot, but Jonny was careful not to cry too much. Crying loud would scare all the fish away. 

You have to be real quiet when you fish, and Jonny likes that, being quiet with his dad, waiting for nibble. 

Jonny’s good at being patient, too, even though he’s little. 

He’s doing that now, waiting with his fishing pole at one end of their boat while his dad’s at the other. Jonny stares out across the water, crisp blue and calm, as their boat sways gently to and fro. 

Jonny likes this a lot; he likes it even more when he reels in a fish by himself and his dad is proud. 

Then, something catches Jonny’s eye that’s not so calm and not so normal for fishing.

He squints, because he’s not sure he’s seeing right, with the sun shining so bright and all, but Jonny’s pretty sure that’s a—that’s a little boy in the water. 

Jonny’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open in shock. That little boy is going to drown out there. 

Where did he come from? Where’s his mom and dad?

Jonny thinks about calling out to him, “hey!”, or yelling to his dad, “look!”, but that would scare all the fish away, and besides, the little boy told him not to, bringing a single finger up to his lips to say “shhh,” even though Jonny can’t hear him from so far. 

His hair is curly and blond as the sunshine, Jonny notices. Even though they were just all wet, they’re already springing around his face where it’s peeking out. 

His eyes are as blue as the water, maybe bluer, and—

Boy, he must be a really great swimmer, with lots of practice. Jonny’s a good swimmer, too, but he would be so tired by now, he thinks... 

The little boy raises his arm back out of the water, a sneaky grin on his face, and gives Jonny a small, friendly wave, saying hello. 

Jonny still isn’t sure this is real. It could be a—what are those things called again? A mirage? His pre-school teacher told him about those, but maybe they only happen in the desert. This isn’t the desert. 

Jonny waves back anyway, because it’s polite to wave when someone does it at you, mirage or not, and the boy smiles even brighter. 

Then, much to Jonny’s disappointment, he disappears into the water again, and Jonny does gasp this time, when he sees a tail—a really pretty, bluish green, scaly mermaid tail flash up in his wake. 

That boy had a tail. That boy was a…mer-boy. 

Jonny’s dad asks, “what is it, son?” but Jonny doesn’t tell, because he’s good at keeping secrets.

He waits, every time they go fishing after that, not just for fish, but for the boy to come back, too. 

Jonny’s good at being patient. 


	9. titanic au

There’s no lifeboat for Jonny.

Of course there isn’t. 

Why would there be? They don’t put steerage passengers on lifeboats. 

The moment Mr. Andrews uttered the words “the ship will sink,” Jonny knew it. 

Patrick knew it. 

What Jonny didn’t know, is that Patrick would forfeit his as well.

“You jump, I jump, remember?” he’d sobbed, slamming into Jonny with enough force to take him to the ground after bailing off his boat, running to find Jonny where he stood, resigning himself to the fact that he’d never live to see Patrick again—

That he’d never live. 

Now, all he has is Patrick’s hand in his, fingers twined together like vices.

He’s the only thing tethering Jonny here and keeping him safe is all that matters, though it seems like a fleeting possibility at this point. 

The Titanic, the unsinkable ship, is sinking. 

Quickly. 

“In an hour’s time,” Mr. Andrews had said. “All this will be at the bottom of the Atlantic.” 

That hour is coming to a close, and he and Patrick are running, panting and frantic, to stay on the ship as long as possible as the bow goes down, taking on more and more water by the second.

People are screaming. People are crying. People are saying goodbye. 

Jonny’s not ready to do that yet. 

“The stern side!” Jonny shouts, pushing and shoving people out of their path. Getting Patrick there, to give them the best chance, that’s the only thing on Jonny’s mind. “Move, goddamnit!”

“Jonny, Jonny, fuck, Jonny, we have to hurry,” Patrick chants behind him, over and over, as if Jonny doesn’t know. What else can he say though?

Time is running out. 

The angle’s getting sharper and sharper, each step harder and harder, but Jonny won’t stop. He can’t. 

They make it to the rail, the first seemingly impossible task completed. 

They’ve just got to hang on now, because it’s all they can do—hang on, wait to be swallowed up by the Atlantic, and pray they don’t end up at the bottom of it. 

Jonny fights for position, sandwiching Patrick between himself and the railing, to shield him from what would most certainly be a fall to his death. 

As the stern tips higher, people slip and make that fall all around them, knocking into metal on their descent, blood-curdling screams piercing Jonny’s ears. 

That will not happen here, not to Patrick. 

He got off that boat, gave up his life for Jonny; it’s Jonny’s turn to do the same, and he would—he will, a million times over, he will. 

“Don’t you dare let go, okay?” Jonny tells him, teeth chattering despite the fact he feels anything but cold, adrenaline coursing through him. He covers Patrick’s hands with his own around the rail. “Don’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Patrick says, spreading his fingers so Jonny’s slot between his, and Jonny squeezes his eyes shut tight and counts to ten. 

He has to keep his head here; there’s no time to think about the fact that every time he touches Patrick could be one touch closer to the last. 

“You’re so stupid,” Jonny repeats in a whisper, for what feels like the thousandth time. It’s all he could say, when Patrick got off that boat, but what it really means is, ‘I love you.’ 

Patrick hears him. 

“I’d be stupid again,” Patrick says solidly. “You give me something more to live for, Jonny.”

Jonny rests his forehead on the back of Patrick’s neck, breathing him in, exhale coming out white. It’s cold, but the water will be colder. 

Once they can’t hold on any longer, their end of the ship practically perpendicular to the water, they climb over the rail. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting...

More people falling, screaming, dying. 

Jonny’s suddenly convinced they won’t be two of those people. 

“We’re gonna make it, Patrick, okay?” Jonny assures him. “We are. This isn’t it, okay?” 

“I trust you,” Patrick says, nodding his head like he believes it. 

That’s good. Jonny needs him to believe it. 

Patrick chuckles then, looking at Jonny with fond, wild and frightened eyes. 

“Jonny, this’s where we first met,” he says, and Jonny can’t help it; he crushes their mouths together, because once they go under, he can believe they’ll survive all he wants to, but you never know. 

You never know. 

When they part, Jonny figures they’ve got thirty seconds before they’re swallowed, water rushing up faster and faster. He grips Patrick’s hand as tightly as he can, so tight it hurts, knuckles white. 

“You take a deep breath, before we go under, Patrick. Take a deep breath, and keep fucking kicking your feet, okay? Don’t stop, and don’t—for the love of God, don’t let go of my hand,” Jonny rambles, squeezing impossibly tighter for emphasis. “Don’t.” 

“I won’t. I won’t,” Patrick assures him. “Jonny, I—”

“Don’t you dare say goodbye, Patrick,” Jonny interrupts. “This is not that. It isn’t. You hold on and keep kicking.” 

“I love you,” Patrick responds. 

“Tell me that again when we come up,” Jonny says, kissing him hard, but when they part, he whispers it back, because Patrick won’t go through this not knowing. 

“More than my own life,” he adds, and Patrick nods, because there’s no time for anything else.

The water is here. 

Jonny sucks in a deep breath, hears Patrick do the same.

Jonny hangs on, and the Atlantic swallows them whole. 


	10. mpreg [jonny]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> patrick goes on a late-night sonic run.

It’s 1:30am, and Jonny’s awake. 

Jonny’s awake a lot, unfortunately, but he assumes that’s to be expected when you’re…expecting (heh), as big as a house and perpetually uncomfortable…and hungry. 

Man, is he fucking hungry. 

Eating for two is tough stuff, and though Jonny’s usually the pinnacle of health, he’s been craving the absolute worst things ever. It’s shameful, really, and Jonny kicks himself every day to be better, for himself, for their baby, but Christ–

He really wants a cheeseburger. Right now. 

Jonny stares at the back of Patrick’s head for two more minutes before he’s unable to stop himself, gently scratching Patrick’s scalp to wake him. 

“Patrick,” he whispers, hand sliding to his shoulder to shake him. Jonny would scoot closer, but it’s too difficult, and his stomach would just keep him from pressing against Patrick’s back like he wants, so reaching will have to suffice. 

“Psssst, Pat,” Jonny tries again, and he begins to stir, grunting and stretching, arching back into Jonny’s touch. 

Patrick’s always the most adorable when he first wakes up in the morning, in a much better mood than Jonny every single time, without fail. 

Jonny really hopes that translates well to the middle of the night. 

It does. 

Patrick rolls over, sleepy smile already plastered to his face, hand going straight to Jonny’s belly, rubbing back and forth. 

“Hmmm?” 

Jonny cuts right to the chase. 

“Um, babe, I was just wonderin’ if, maybe you’d wanna–” 

“Have sex?” Patrick guesses, hopeful, just as Jonny’s finishing, “Go get me a cheeseburger from Sonic?” 

Jonny can’t blame him. Normally, middle of the night wake-ups  _are_  for sex–that’s exactly how he ended up with a baby in him–and Jonny’s been mega-horny all throughout his pregnancy. 

“Oh,” Patrick deflates, but then he perks right back up. “Of course, Jonny, whatever you want.” 

“I just really need it,” Jonny explains. “Hey, I could be about that other thing, too, but–” 

“Just after you’ve had your food?” Patrick chuckles around a yawn, cupping Jonny’s face and leaning down for a quick kiss before heaving himself out of bed and switching on the lamp to better facilitate finding a t-shirt to drag on.

Jonny’s starting to get a little giddy, thinking about this burger he’s got coming to him, so he gives Patrick his order clearly; there can be no mistakes made here. 

“Double cheeseburger. Mayo, extra pickles, and no–”

“No onions, they give you heartburn,” Patrick finishes. “Who do you think you’re talkin’ to here?” 

“Okay, okay,” Jonny says apologetically, because nobody knows him better than Patrick. He’s been so wonderful throughout this whole thing too; Jonny’s rock, there for whatever he needs and eager to give it to him, whenever, without complaint. 

Even if it’s really unhealthy, like Jonny’s next request. 

“Hey, Pat, maybe a milkshake, too? But don’t–”

“Don’t tell anyone, I know.” 

Patrick’s full-on laughing at him now, which is understandable, maybe, but Jonny said he’s ashamed, alright. His sugar levels were higher than they should’ve been at his last appointment–well, higher than  _he_  thought they should’ve been; the doctor seemed totally unconcerned. 

“Hurry back, okay?” Jonny calls to him, and Patrick smiles. 

“Wouldn’t dream of makin’ you wait, baby–or me,” he adds with a waggle of his eyebrows, and Jonny’s cheeks flush, lowkey arousal kicking up a notch as Patrick strolls out of their room.

He’s back in record time, and when it’s all said and done, as much as Jonny wanted that cheeseburger, having Patrick after is so, so much better. 

 


	11. hurt/comfort [kaner's sick]

Patrick feels like death warmed over. Twice.

He’s lying in bed, cursing the day he overestimated the fortitude of his immune system, because that’s exactly how he got this way; Jonny rudely passing whatever crud he was carrying right on over to Patrick.

Betrayed by his body and boyfriend. 

It’s not surprising–maybe he even had it coming, if he’s honest–since they swap spit on the regular and share a bed, a house, hotel rooms, and everything else, but whatever, Patrick can be bitter if he wants; he’s the sick one here–sniffling, achy, feverish, and sleep-deprived. 

He’d be even more bitter about it, if Jonny wasn’t so fucking good at taking care of him. Patrick never thought he’d see the day when he wanted anyone other than his mom when he was sick, but alas, here it is.

All he wants is Jonny, and it’s not just because Jonny brings him things and gently plays with his hair and rubs his back and stuff, but because Patrick’s always after Jonny’s attention, and now he needs it, craves it like it’s got healing powers.

Jonny’s his person, and even though they aren’t married–yet–‘in sickness and in health’ is definitely applicable here, so Patrick’s got no qualms whatsoever about whining until he gets what he wants; not that he has to do much of it. Jonny seeks out these opportunities, loves that Patrick wants and depends on him more than anybody else. 

But Patrick still does a little, anyway, so Jonny will baby him extra. 

“Jonnnyyyyy,” he bellows, voice all nasally and stuffed up; it’s pretty gross. 

Jonny’s been in the kitchen, making soup for him, and fuck, is it taking forever. Patrick doesn’t really have much of an appetite, but he does have the chills, and he can’t think of much else he’d rather have to warm him up than a hot bowl of soup and Jonny wrapped around him while he eats it. 

Seconds later, he hears Jonny bounding up the stairs, probably two at a time, so Patrick knows he’s soup-less, just coming up to check on him. 

When the door opens, Patricks catches a faint whiff of something familiar and homey, wafting from downstairs, but his sense of smell is all fucked up and untrustworthy, so he can’t be sure what it is, exactly. 

“Yeah, babe?” Jonny answers, warm smile on his face, always eager to please. 

He strides over and immediately places his palm to Patrick’s clammy forehead to check his temperature, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. Patrick has no idea how people can tell anything from that shit; he’s always cold, too, so everybody feels like they’ve got a fever to him. 

Must be Jonny’s inner mother hen making an appearance. 

“You don’t feel as warm,” Jonny says optimistically, bending to press his lips where his hand was, fingers raking through Patrick’s hair. They’re nice and cool, and it feels so good to have Jonny’s hands on him again, after what? Thirty whole minutes? 

Practically an eternity. 

“You’ve been gone a while,” Patrick mumbles, which is the real problem here–not the lack of soup, but the lack of Jonny. 

“Missin’ me, eh?” Jonny asks with a grin, perching on the edge of the bed, and Patrick nods pitifully in response, putting on the full pout. He doesn’t miss the way Jonny’s eyes shift to his mouth. 

“If you weren’t so sick, I’d bite that lip for you,” Jonny tells him, and Patrick feels deeply satisfied, knowing Jonny’s still hot for him even when he’s disgusting, snotty and unshowered, practically beating down death’s door. 

“You know you want it,” Patrick smirks, then as if on cue, he sneezes, loud and hard, and it’s not pretty. 

Jonny just hands him a Kleenex. Patrick uses it and gives it back. 

“Soup’ll be ready in a minute, and I’ll be right back up,” Jonny says, disposing of it in the trashcan by the bed that Patrick manages to hit less than ten percent of the time. “I can hold you while you eat,” he adds, and Patrick’s face practically splits in two, he smiles so big. 

He feels better just thinking about it: Jonny behind him, thick thighs bracketing him as Patrick leans back into his chest. Jonny will probably massages his neck and shoulders, without being prompted, too, because he’s the best. 

Jonny interrupts his daydreaming about soon-to-be reality with, “You need anything else while I’m gone?” 

“What kinda soup you makin’?” Patrick asks curiously, and Jonny does his bashful face, cheeks flushing a little. Patrick nudges him with his knee. 

“Well, I called Donna, and she said potato is your favorite when you’re sick, so…”

“You got her recipe?” Patrick asks, mouth hanging open in shock and also because he’s sort of a mouth-breather right now. He knew he smelled home down there, stopped up nose or not, and Patrick’s suddenly starving for bacon-y, cheesy goodness. Mmm…

“Well, I didn’t want to make some shit substitute, Patrick, not when you’re sick,” Jonny replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole world. 

How did Patrick get so lucky? 

“You’re the best, Jon,” Patrick says, echoing his thoughts from a moment ago, because that _is_ the most obvious thing in the whole world…


	12. mpreg au [kaner]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: patrick cries about something, and jonny comforts him (with his dick).

Jonny knocks on the bedroom door softly, speaking in a hushed, most understanding voice to his husband on the other side. 

“Patrick, you ready, babe?” 

Normally, he’d just barge right in, because it’s his room too, but this third trimester has been absolute hell for Patrick, and he’s extra testy today, so Jonny’s found it’s best to proceed with caution. 

They’ve got a Christmas party tonight, and if they don’t leave now, they’ll be well beyond the acceptable level of late, though Jonny wouldn’t dare say that out loud. He’s been debating whether or not they should even bother going, but it’s his boss’s get-together, and Patrick loves Christmas, so he thought it might help lift his spirits. 

“Are you _rushing_  me?” Patrick barks, and well, maybe no spirits have been lifted just yet. 

Jonny cringes, prepared for the onslaught as he slowly opens the door and peeks in. What he gets instead, is somewhat unexpected. 

Patrick’s star-fished on the bed, round belly prominent underneath his tight, red sweater, staring up at the ceiling. Jonny can see his slacks are stuck around his thighs, the full journey to his waist incomplete, probably halted in frustration. 

“M’not rushing—just checkin’ on you,” Jonny murmurs, walking over to him. It’s not until he gets closer that he realizes Patrick’s trembling, sniffling...crying. 

“Pat, sweetheart, what is it?” Jonny asks, worried, sitting down next to Patrick and rubbing a soothing hand over his stomach.  

“None of my fucking clothes fit me right. I just got these pants three weeks ago, and now look!” Patrick sniffles, wiping his eyes after he gestures to what seems to be all of him. 

“You’re pregnant, Patrick,” Jonny points out, flexing his fingers against the mound that’s housing their child. He really wants to get his hand under Patrick’s sweater, feel it skin-on-skin, but he knows now’s not the time. “Your clothes don’t have to fit right.” 

“I’m disgusting,” Patrick wails, fresh tears falling from his eyes, and—

Oh, no, absolutely not. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Jonny tells him, struggling to hide how offended he is that Patrick would think for even one second that he’s anything but. “I think—god, I think you’re so sexy like this.”

“Pffft,” Patrick scoffs, hiding his surely reddening face. “Shut up, I’m a beached whale.”

“You’re carrying our son,” Jonny says, leaning down to pull Patrick’s arm from over his eyes. “There’s nothing sexier to me than that, Patrick, trust me.” 

Patrick meets Jonny’s eyes, face splotchy and flushed, but even through that, he’s glowing, just as he has been since the day he uttered those two words to Jonny: I’m pregnant. 

“Yeah?” Patrick whispers, but Jonny still hears some doubt, and that simply won’t do. 

“Hell yeah,” he answers, gently grabbing Patrick by the shoulder to help him ease to sitting. “C’mere.” 

Patrick grunts as he heaves himself up, and Jonny can’t even begin to imagine how uncomfortable he must be, body going through changes neither of them knew it was capable of. He’s a fucking rock star, is what he is. 

Jonny’s in awe of him. 

He runs his fingers through Patrick’s curls, pushing them out of his face, then rests a hand on Patrick’s belly as he kisses the corner of his eyes, licks at the salty moisture that was Patrick’s tears. 

“You’re gorgeous, baby,” Jonny mumbles against the edge of his mouth, kissing him softly, and Patrick huffs a shaky breath. 

He hasn’t really been in the mood much lately and feeling like shit doesn’t seem conducive to getting him that way, so Jonny’s surprised when Patrick presses into the kiss, deepens it, reaching up to clutch Jonny’s bicep. 

“Don’t ever doubt that I feel that way, okay?” Jonny says between kisses, and after a minute, he takes Patrick’s hand in his, placing it between his legs, so Patrick can feel how hard he is, for him. 

“See, s’how much I want you, Patrick—always,” Jonny tells him, and Patrick stifles a moan, shifting closer. 

“Jonny,” Patrick breathes out, cupping his erection, fingers tightening just right. 

“So hot for you, babe. Let me show you,” Jonny continues, and Patrick nods, reaching for Jonny’s belt buckle. 

“What about the party?” he asks, stilling his hand, and Jonny moves to help him out. 

“Fuck the party,” Jonny replies, satisfied when he feels Patrick smile against his mouth.  

“We’ll have to do it on our sides like we’re eighty,” Patrick chuckles, sounding a little embarrassed about it, though Jonny’s got no idea why. 

“Do you think I give a shit how I get to have you, ever?” Jonny asks, and Patrick groans, throwing himself at Jonny as best he can with his huge belly in the way. 

And based on the other sounds Patrick makes later, when Jonny’s fucking into him from behind, it doesn’t seem as if he actually gives a shit either. 


	13. mpreg 2 [kaner]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arguing over baby names.

Jonny chooses his moment strategically, careful to catch Patrick in the best mood possible. 

They’ve attempted this conversation a couple times before, and it didn’t—well, it didn’t go very smoothly, to say the least. 

It’s fucking crunch time, though. 

There’re only three weeks left until their baby boy arrives, and they  _still_  don’t have a name picked out. It’s driving Jonny absolutely insane. 

So, he’s just given Patrick a most enthusiastic rim-job, had Patrick panting, moaning into his forearm, propped against the bathroom counter as Jonny ate him out, reaching around to jerk him off until he was coming all over Jonny’s fist, streaking the cabinets.

It probably wasn’t the most comfortable spot for Jonny, tile floor biting into his knees, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to get his baby daddy ready to talk names. 

Jonny gets to his feet, ignoring his own raging boner in favor of silently watching Patrick recover, listening to his breathing settle. Jonny rubs Patrick’s neck, nails tickling over his shoulders. 

“Mmm, that was good, Jonny,” Patrick mumbles, finally righting himself, a lazy, satisfied smile on his face. Perfect. 

Jonny smiles back, runs a gentle hand through Patrick’s hair. 

“It was my pleasure,” he replies truthfully. “Go get in bed, I’ll clean up and be right there.”

“What about you?” Patrick asks, gesturing to Jonny’s dick straining against his boxers, but Jonny shrugs him off. If they pick a name tonight, it’ll have all been worth it; his balls might not thank him, but his peace of mind will. 

“I’ll handle that, too. I know you’re tired,” Jonny says, brushing his knuckles against Patrick’s cheekbone. Patrick catches his hand and kisses them, each one individually, eyes never leaving Jonny’s, before he shuffles out of the bathroom. 

Jonny feels a surge of optimism: Patrick is in a great fucking mood. 

* * *

 

That optimism is only half squashed when he actually brings up talking names to Patrick, who sighs heavily next to him in bed, but otherwise seems willing to cooperate. 

“I mean, there are only three weeks left,” Jonny points out, rummaging in the bedside drawer for his list. 

“I know how long there is,” Patrick answers, and Jonny pretends he didn’t hear the agitated shift in Patrick’s tone. “I’m literally counting the minutes until I can be normal-sized again.” 

Jonny doesn’t dare touch that, and instead scans over the list: 

 ~~Maximilian~~  
Xander  
James  
~~Tyrion~~  
~~Tiberius~~  
Armand  
Timothy  
Liam  
Luke  
~~Skywalker  
~~ Brent

There are some good, some bad, some completely unacceptable. 

“I still like Tyrion,” Patrick says, and Jonny grimaces. 

“Patrick.” 

“What? It’s a good name,” Patrick defends, and Jonny levels him with a stare. This is exactly how these conversations always get heated: Patrick leads with the worst choices, Jonny shuts him down, then Patrick shuts the whole thing down. 

“We are not naming our kid after Game of fucking Thrones,” Jonny says simply, all ‘end of discussion’ like, and Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“Fine, fine. Fine. What do you have on that list that’s better?” 

Jonny refrains from pointing out that literally anything--anything would be better than the shit names Patrick’s picking. 

“I like Armand for a middle name,” Jonny shrugs, and Patrick makes a gagging face. 

“Why are you sayin’ it all French and shit?  _Ar-mAHnd_ ,” he repeats, cringing like it pained him to pronounce it that way--the proper way. 

“Uh, because it  _is_  French,” Jonny explains, but Patrick doesn’t look convinced. 

“Armand,” he repeats, and now Jonny wants to cringe, the Americanized version sounding so uncivilized— _Armund_. “I still like Skyw—” 

“Don’t, Patrick,” Jonny interrupts. “Do not say you want to name our child Skywalker. Look, look at the list.” He shows it to Patrick, shifting in the bed to better face him. “It is clearly marked off as a no go.” 

Patrick snatches it. “Why are none of your stupid choices scratched off, huh? Who made you captain of the list?”

“I made me captain of the list, Patrick. Me. I did,” Jonny snaps, and then takes a deep breath. This is not how this was supposed to go. 

“I like Lucas,” Patrick remarks easily, cutting through the tension, and Jonny immediately opens his mouth to protest, but then— Hey, Jonny sort of likes Lucas, too, and it’s literally the first normal thing Patrick’s suggested. 

Jonny puts his hand on Patrick’s belly, gets in real close and rubs back and forth, looking for inspiration from within. 

“Lucas,” Jonny tries, feeling Patrick’s hand come down and scratch through his hair. That’s their normal thing: Jonny talks to the baby, Patrick plays with Jonny’s hair. It’s nice. 

“Luuucas,” Jonny croons, and holy shit—a kick! 

Jonny gasps. “He kicked! He likes it! He likes Lucas!” 

“He always kicks the shit out of me at night,” Patrick points out dryly, and Jonny shushes him. 

“Don’t ruin this for me.” 

Patrick chuckles, tugging at Jonny’s hair until he look raises up to look at him. “So...Lucas, then? Lucas...Armand?”

“Armand,” Jonny corrects, pronouncing it correctly, and Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“Tomato, to-mah-to,” he says with a dismissive hand wave, and Jonny smiles big and kisses him hard. 

They can fight about that later.  


	14. mpreg 3 [kaner]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucas armand toews's birthday.

“Jonny, is he here yet? Oh shit, is he out?” Patrick asks for the third time, voice shaky and labored, hand gripped tightly around Jonny’s. 

Jonny can’t see any better than Patrick can, with the giant partition that he’s secretly thanking every god in existence for, and he’s got no intentions on looking around it.

Blood isn’t his thing. Seeing Patrick cut open, for a necessary reason or not, isn’t his thing. 

Patrick whimpers, a little hissing sound escaping him, and Jonny assumes that means they’re doing it now, or they’re rummaging around in there or something. The doctor said he’d feel some pressure, and Jonny can only pray to those same gods that he isn’t in much pain. 

Patrick’s forehead is glistening with sweat, his face red and splotchy, but he otherwise seems okay. Jonny’s never been more in awe of him. He carried their child for nine long, trying months, and now he’s literally being gutted to get him out. Jesus fucking Christ, what a warrior. 

“Shhh, sweetheart, you’re doin’ so good,” Jonny tells him, patting his forehead with a damp, cool cloth. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Jonny presses a kiss to his temple, lets his lips drag gently back and forth. “Doin’ so good, babe,” he repeats, and Patrick lets out a tiny sob, growing more impatient and frantic by the second. 

“What’s taking so–Jonny, what if?–he’s okay, right? Jonny, please look,” Patrick begs. 

Jonny would do anything to ease Patrick’s worries right now, so he does as he’s asked, though he swore to himself he wouldn’t. 

“I’m sure he’s–” Jonny starts, standing to peer over the partition, careful not to release Patrick’s hand, just as the doctor’s saying, “Ahh, here he is,” lifting out their–

It’s their baby boy. Their son, and he’s–

“Patrick, he’s–he’s _perfect_ ,” Jonny breathes out, voice barely above a whisper he’s struck with such raw emotion, staring at the human life he and Patrick created together. 

Lucas is tiny, so so tiny, and all Jonny can make out from here is a mess of dark hair atop his little head, all matted with gross baby goop. 

“Oh, Jonny, is he? He’s okay? What’s he? Can I–?” Patrick rambles weakly, and Jonny drops back down to his seat, kisses Patrick’s face–his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. Jonny can tell he’s fading from the drugs, but there’s no way Patrick doesn’t stay awake to see the baby before he passes out; he’s much too hardheaded for that. 

“Patrick, oh my god,” Jonny murmurs to him, overwhelmed, and only then does Jonny notice the wetness streaking his own cheeks. “You did so great, baby–you did it, and he’s beautiful and healthy and I love you so fuckin’ much.” 

The nurse steps around the partition then, loose blue bundle in tow, and Patrick practically squeals, lifts his arm to make a grabby hand at the baby, the other still holding onto Jonny. 

“Time to meet your son, boys,” she says with a warm smile. 

She gently lays Lucas straight on Patrick’s chest and continues to support most of his weight, since Patrick probably can’t and she’ll have to take him right back to get cleaned up soon. 

The baby seems even smaller up close, hair a dark brown, maybe black, tiny lips pursed adorably. His hands and feet are the teeniest Jonny’s ever seen, fists clenching and toes curled. Jonny idly wonders why he hasn’t cried yet, and it serves as an immediate jinx, because Lucas opens his little mouth, takes a quivering breath, and lets out a single, ear-piercing shriek, then quiets again. 

“Jonny, he’s–oh, he _is_ perfect!” Patrick says, reaching to support Lucas’s head, kissing his adorable, wrinkly little forehead. “Yes, you are, baby boy–you are the most precious I’ve ever seen,” he croons. “Jonny, his hair! Are you _seeing_ this?” 

“Yeah, Pat, I’m seein’ it,” Jonny tells him, smoothing two delicate fingers over Lucas’s brow, heart clenching in his chest when the baby flinches a little then relaxes. Jonny bends to kiss Patrick then, chest full to bursting. Seeing Patrick hold their son, it’s–

It’s the most humbling thing he’s ever witnessed. 

Jonny’s always been of the firm belief that he could never love anything or anyone more than he loves Patrick, and while that still feels true, his love for Patrick building and growing each and every day, this new love he feels for their son–for his complete, perfect little family…it’s different, more powerful and strengthening and scary and wonderful than anything he’s ever felt. 

Truly life-altering. 

His Patrick. Their son. Their family… 

“Lucas Armand Toews,” Patrick whispers. “Welcome to the world, son. Papa and Daddy love you so much.” 

“Yes, we do, baby boy,” Jonny echoes. “Even if your daddy won’t say your middle name right.” 

“Don’t start with me,” Patrick grumps, then fists his hand in Jonny’s hair and drags him down for a kiss, anyway. It’s absolutely perfect. 


	15. kaner takes a hit [3.20.16]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: jonny worrying about kaner after the dumba hit, afraid he's concussed.

Jonny shouts when Patrick goes down.

It’s involuntarily, like the worry in his chest just rips through him and out of his mouth before he can stop it. He knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of those hits, fuzzy and disoriented, not sure if you’re just stunned or there’s something more. 

Something serious. 

So, Jonny watches, holds his breath as Patrick slowly shuffles to his knees and adjusts his helmet. 

_Get up, get up, get up._

Jonny sees Bread Man grab Dumba in his peripherals, gloves flying off, and he appreciates that, wishes he could do it himself, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Patrick. 

_Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay._

Patrick finally makes it to his feet, skates off on his own. Jonny’s skated off on his own before, too. Didn’t mean much. 

He tries to keep his cool, lock it down, because they have a game to play–a game to win–but Patrick goes to the quiet room with minimal protests, and Jonny finds it difficult to breathe. 

“He’s alright, kid,” Brent mutters before they go on the penalty kill, still calling Jonny ‘kid’ after all these years. 

It helps, makes things feel normal, even as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. 

The way Patrick’s head snapped back. Fuck, he never leaves his head down like that. Why was his fucking head down like that? 

Jonny tries to focus, throw all his emotion into the kill, because fuck him if the Wild are scoring on this, the most justified two minutes they’ve killed in a while. He could be biased, but that’s not the point. 

They don’t score. 

Patrick returns to the bench. 

Jonny makes a spot for himself next to him, even though there isn’t one. 

“You good?” he asks, doing his best to keep his voice even and his hands to himself; they don’t do that here, be a couple, not on the bench. 

“I’m back out, aren’t I?” Patrick replies, eyes forward. He probably thinks Jonny wants to bitch at him, because his head was down, but that’s not true. 

Jonny wants him to be okay, and that’s it. 

He doesn’t respond. 

They lose in a shootout. 

* * *

 

Patrick gets to the back before Jonny does, and when he scans the locker room and doesn’t see him, Jonny goes looking. 

The game is over. This is a safe space. 

They do that here, especially under these circumstances. 

Jonny’s worrying shifts into overdrive, gear still on as he haphazardly throws open the door to the trainer’s room to find Patrick up on a table, getting checked out again. 

“Just an extra precaution,” Dr. Chiampas says, voice reassuring, as he makes Patrick follow his finger. 

Jonny waits. 

“All good,” he says firmly, patting Patrick’s thigh as an okay to get down, but Patrick doesn’t move, knowing full well he’s got a second examination coming. 

Jonny barely registers the doctor leave, too busy pushing into Patrick’s space, chunking his helmet to the floor. He’d forgotten to take it off in his haste to find Patrick. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Kaner,” Jonny breathes out, clutching Patrick’s hips and pressing their foreheads together. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”

“You just heard the doc–” 

“No,” Jonny interrupts. “No, you–I need to hear _you_ say it.” 

“I hardly think I’m more qualified to make those kinds of judgements,” Patrick answers flatly, and Jonny’s not sure why Patrick’s playing fucking hardball with this. Probably pissed at himself, because his head was down.

Jonny pulls back, and whatever pleading look he gives Patrick must say enough, because Patrick sighs, offers Jonny a small, understanding smile and cups his face. 

Jonny can breathe better now, with Patrick’s hands on him. 

“I’m okay, Jonny,” he tells him, wiping sweat from Jonny’s neck. “Should’a had my fucking head up, but I’m okay.” 

Jonny closes his eyes, lets Patrick’s words wash over him, only the sounds of their breathing filling the room. 

_He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay._

Jonny opens them again to find Patrick’s beautiful blues eyes staring back–a little sad and a lot pissed off, but beautiful just the same–and sighs deeply in relief. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” Jonny mutters, reaching up to gently graze his fingertips along Patrick’s forehead, back through his frizzy post-game hair, scratching at his scalp. 

“I scared the shit out of me, too,” Patrick grins, just a little one, with the smallest flash of a dimple.

Jonny presses his lips to it, then to Patrick’s temples, so delicately, just a light brush against his skin. 

“I’m not gonna break,” Patrick whispers, squeezing the back of Jonny’s neck tightly. 

“You might,” Jonny replies. 

He didn’t, though. 

That’s all that matters. 


	16. love in an elevator

Jonny isn’t an expert on elevators. 

People get in, push the buttons, and the thing goes. That’s the extent of his knowledge about the mechanics of it.  

He’s not sure it’s supposed to make that clanging, metal-grinding noise, though, and he’s certain it’s not supposed to jolt to a halt, midway between floors, either. 

“Oh-oh my god,” Patrick stutters, totally freaked already, since he already hates elevators as it is. He’s clutching the silver railing, knuckles white, back pressed against the wall, eyes darting around the small space. “Why did it stop? Are we stuck? Fuck, are we fucking stuck?” 

He sucks in a frantic, labored breath and–

Jonny might not be an elevator expert, but he _is_ a Patrick expert. 

He spends the majority of his time teetering back and forth between nervous, wound a little too tight, and easygoing and relaxed. This is just the type of shit to push him to the extreme side of the former. 

Patrick hates feeling hot and trapped or stuck or–

He’s freaking the fuck out, claustrophobic tendencies kicking into overdrive.  

“Jonny! Fuck, fuck, fuck. We. Are. Stuck,” he yelps, and Jonny tries not to laugh at the fact that he’s unintentionally rhyming a lot. 

“HEYYY,” Patrick bellows, easing over to bang at the door, like the floor will fold beneath him if he walks too hard. “Let us the fuck–Jonny, why aren’t you freaking? We’re stuck in an elevator!” 

“Patrick, it’s okay–it’s been like, forty-five seconds. I’m sure it’ll start back up any minute now. Just breathe, babe,” Jonny tells him, using the most calming, reassuring tone he can manage. 

It does not start back up any minute now. 

“You said, Jonny, you said!” Patrick gasps, dragging in shaky, frantic breaths. “It’s been–we’ve been in here forever. I can’t fucking–we’re gonna die in this elevator!” 

“Oh, we are not,” Jonny insists, not sure of what to do exactly. It’s barely been ten minutes. Patrick’s pacing, wringing out his hands, biting his nails, really losing his mind. 

Then, they hear a voice. 

“You guys okay in there?” 

It’s from the outside–a voice of authority, that much is obvious. Jonny assumes the elevator gave out close to the next floor, the door is open, and they’ve been able to hear Patrick’s steady stream of curses and worrying this whole time. 

“Oh my god!” Patrick shouts, plastering himself to the wall closest to the noise. “No! We’re not okay! We’re stuck! Get us the FUCK out!” 

“We _are_ okay!” Jonny amends. He doesn’t want whoever’s working on the elevator to think they’ve got a medical emergency down here; even though, if Patrick keeps on this course, they might have one soon enough. “Just stuck!”

“Stuck, we’re stuck. Oh shit, we’re stuck,” Patrick repeats, mostly to himself it seems, and he turns, back to the wall, and slides down to the floor, head between his knees. 

“We’ll get you out as soon as we can, maybe another thirty minutes or so! Just hang tight.”

“As if we have another OPTION,” Patrick shrieks, then mutters, “Hang fucking tight, what a joke.” 

Jonny knows he has to calm Patrick down, and he’s got something in mind, but now he knows people can hear them. 

He decides he doesn’t care. 

“Patrick, c’mere, baby,” Jonny says, stepping over to reach for Patrick’s hand and haul him up off the floor. “You’re okay.”

“I am not.” 

Patrick’s breathing is still off, quick and short, like he can’t get enough air, and Jonny pulls him into his chest. Patrick goes easily, wrapping his arms tightly around Jonny’s waist. Normally, he’d bury his face in Jonny’s chest, but not today, not while they’re trapped. 

“You are, too,” Jonny murmurs, stroking his hands over Patrick’s back, massaging out some of the tension. “Lemme take your mind off it, eh?” 

“How? We’re fucking stuck in an elevator!” Patrick repeats, for maybe the fiftieth time. 

Jonny walks them to the wall, takes Patrick’s hands from around his waist, and places them on the rail. Then Jonny sinks slowly to his knees, letting his body slide against Patrick’s, kissing his neck, then his clothed stomach on the way down. 

“Oh,” is all Patrick manages, “Oh.” 

“Yeah?” Jonny asks, just to check, even as his hands work steadily on Patrick’s jean button and zipper. 

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers, head thunking back against the cool metal, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. Jonny rubs his thighs, staring up at him until Patrick looks back. 

“Just relax, Patrick.” 

Jonny eases Patrick’s pants down just a little, then pulls his dick from his boxers, still mostly soft. Jonny loves that, sucking him hard, then working out everything Patrick’s got until he’s gone soft again. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and Jonny’s got thirty minutes, though he’s certain it’ll take less than half that. 

He’s a Patrick expert, remember? 

Patrick gasps at the first pass of Jonny’s tongue over his slit, easy and languid, just a light tease to get him going. Jonny licks his hand, because Patrick likes it wet, and pumps his shaft, quick strokes near the base; Patrick starts to fatten up pretty quickly, as he always does, so Jonny gets his mouth on him, eager to feel that fullness, what his touch is doing to Patrick. 

“Jesus, we’re stuck in an elevator, and you’re suckin’ my dick like a champ,” Patrick whines appreciatively, moving one hand from the rail and into Jonny’s hair. 

Jonny’s making a lot of noise, he knows, but nothing’s worth doing if you’re not going to do it right, so he keeps it up, slurping and sucking and moaning with it, bobbing his head enthusiastically as he takes Patrick’s dick in short, quick motions. Patrick’s meeting his mouth each time, hips rolling forward, and Jonny knows Patrick wants to be taken deep, when he does that, so Jonny obliges him. 

Patrick’s fully hard now, so Jonny has to focus to take him all the way in, and his eyes water a little, Patrick nudging at the back of his throat, Jonny’s nose nuzzling into the wiry, blondish hair smattering the base. 

“Fuuuck,” Patrick moans, not even bothering to be quiet, and that only gets Jonny more into it, that Patrick doesn’t give a shit either–that he might _want_ people to hear them. Jonny moans around him, and Patrick shudders into it involuntarily, the vibrations doing it for him, Jonny assumes. “Oh, fuck, Jonny, if you keep–” 

Jonny eases up a bit, lets his tongue glide along Patrick’s length as he pulls off, just sucking at the head again, leaking with pre-come. Jonny laps some up, smears it over his lips before licking it off again, and Patrick’s eyes flutter closed.  

“Mmm, you taste good,” he rasps, cutting off Patrick’s choked response by going at it again, working Patrick’s cock against the inside of his cheeks, hollowing them out. Patrick’s hands are there immediately, holding Jonny’s face to feel it. 

“Shit, Jonny, look at–” Patrick says, fingers drumming against Jonny’s skin, tracing his dick inside Jonny’s mouth. “We’re on a goddamn elevator, and I’m gonna fucking, m’gonna–” 

Jonny’d started this to calm Patrick down and get his mind off the elevator, but now it seems like the fact that they’re stuck on one, and Jonny’s sucking him off in the meantime, is doing it for him more than the blowjob alone. 

He’s close, Jonny knows, so he takes Patrick deep again, sucks hard, and Patrick comes immediately, hot and thick down Jonny’s throat, moaning unbridled, hips shuddering. 

“Fuuuck me, oh my goddd,” he sobs, tugging on Jonny’s hair, but Jonny doesn’t let Patrick pull him off, just swallows everything Patrick’s got and sucks him through it. “So good, Jonny, holy shit.” 

Jonny backs off and wipes his mouth, jerking Patrick gently with his hand until he’s spent, then tucks him back into his underwear. Patrick groans, a long, satisfied sound, and slides to the floor again, grabbing Jonny for a kiss. 

Jonny’s hard in his pants, dick begging for attention, but Patrick’s too fucked out for much. Just when he thinks he’s going to be jerking it himself, Patrick clutches the back of Jonny’s thighs, tugging Jonny onto his lap. 

“Ride me ‘til you come, c’mon,” Patrick breathes into Jonny’s mouth between kisses, and yeah, okay–he can get on board with that; won’t take long, anyway. 

The friction is almost too much, if he’s honest, but the rough drag of sensation is so good, just like this; Patrick urging him on as Jonny rocks into his stomach, thighs bracketing Patrick’s. Jonny’s gasping with it, these punched out, breathy ‘hah’s’ escaping him with each thrust, Patrick’s fingers digging into his ass. 

“So fucking hot, Jonny, want you to come,” Patrick orders, and Jonny does, right in his jeans, soaking the front of them. Thank God they’re in Patrick’s building, so they can just go straight back upstairs–hopefully for round two–when they escape this fucking elevator. 

Jonny collapses into Patrick’s chest, head on his shoulder as they both collect themselves, slow their panted breathing. Patrick’s doesn’t sound much better than it did before, but Jonny knows it’s different this time; he can feel it in the ease of Patrick’s hands on his back, in the relaxed hum of his voice. 

“You’re the master of distraction,” Patrick mumbles, kissing the apple of Jonny’s cheek, then, much to Jonny’s amusement and none to his surprise, Patrick starts up a little tune, wiggling his hips beneath him: 

“’Love in an elevator, livin’ it up when I’m goin’ down. Love in an elevator, lovin’ it up ‘til I hit the ground’.” 

“Aerosmith, huh?” Jonny chuckles, trailing his lips along the sensitive skin of Patrick’s neck. 

“Got me feelin’ good, babe,” Patrick answers with a shiver. 

Mission accomplished, then. 


	17. pawn shop au

“But what do you _mean_ you can’t take them?” the guy huffs, more offended than the situation warrants. “Isn’t that what you  _do_ here?”

Patrick tries to keep his face neutral, stifle his highly amused disbelief. It’s difficult, and he must not do a very good job, because the guy just narrows his eyes even more murderously.

This dude cannot be serious, though. 

He waltzed into Pawn City, which pretty much buys and resells electronics and jewelry and movies and shit, with–no kidding, here–a duffle full of ping pong paddle sets. 

_Ping pong paddle sets._

Like, two paddles, two balls, and carrying cases for each set, ranging from brand new to gently used, it appears. Twelve, to be exact, so twenty-four paddles in total. It’s an impressive collection, honestly, and Patrick wants to ask him where the fuck he got them all, but superfluous questions probably won’t go over well, if Patrick had to guess. 

Man, he’s fine as hell, too, despite the attitude. All dark hair with eyes to match, tan, smooth skin and tight muscles. Patrick wishes he could help the guy out, turn that frown upside down and all that; but not nearly enough to buy these things and risk his job for wasting money on useless shit they can’t sell again. 

So, he accidentally chuckles in the guy’s face instead, just to watch it turn a lovely shade of red. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Patrick says, semi-apologetically. “We don’t buy that kinda cra–stuff.” 

“It’s not crap!” the guy blurts. “These are _nice_ and _new_!”

Just for the sake of being contrary, Patrick replies, “They’re not all new,” even though that’s neither here nor there. Pawn City ain’t interested regardless. 

“They are _mostly_ new!” the guy amends. “And I looked it up–these sets go for like, twenty bucks a piece!” 

He’s utterly outraged and taking it personally. Patrick finds it incredibly amusing for some reason; he can’t stop giggling. Usually he’d have shown someone the exit at this point, but pushing this guy’s buttons is really doing it for him. 

“Not up in here,” Patrick says, cool and casual, and he thinks that might be what’s fucking with this dude the most–that he’s so angry and Patrick’s so…not.

“What the fuck do I do with them them?” the guy grits out, mostly to himself Patrick thinks, but he’s not one to pass up an opportunity to offer a helpful suggestion. 

“Gather your bro-squad and have a ping pong tournament?” Patrick says. The guy looks bro enough to have a bro-squad, anyway. His tank top, backwards hat, and flip flop combo screams ‘I just left a frat house, pledge Kappa Alpha!’ or some shit. 

The guy just stares at him, mouth pressed into a flat line. 

Patrick laughs again. 

“Look, man. What’s your name?”

“Jonny,” he answers reluctantly, and Patrick grins at him.

“Okay, Jonny. I’m Patrick–” 

“I know, I can read your name tag. Thanks,” Jonny interrupts, grumpy as ever, and Patrick decides to throw him a bone, even though he seems like a major doucher at this point. 

“Oh, I didn’t know you could, since you missed the sign out front that says ‘Pawn City’ instead of ‘Play It Again Sports,’” Patrick tells him, and Jonny frowns. 

“What the fuck’s ‘Play It Again Sports’?” 

“It’s like, a pawn shop…for sporting goods,” Patrick informs him. “Like those paddles ya got there.” 

“Why didn’t you just say that from the start?” Jonny asks, but his brow is starting to unfurrow a bit, so Patrick thinks he might be getting somewhere. His less-grouchy face is even cuter…

“I’m sayin’ it now, aren’t I?” Patrick says, neglecting to add that watching him squirm was the best entertainment he’s had all day, then gets an idea. “Look, I know the manager, too. I could get you a good deal on ‘em, if you want.” 

“Like, what? You wanna go with me or something?” Jonny replies, skeptical at worst, slightly interested at best. 

“I will, is what I’m saying. It’s right down the street,” Patrick shrugs. “My shift’s done in fifteen.” 

Jonny looks thoughtful, conflicted, and still a little pissed off, so Patrick’s surprised when he sighs and says, “Fine, I’ll wait,” with a small, pretty adorable smile.  

“Sweet. Feel free to browse our items of actual value,” Patrick teases, gesturing to the rest of the store with a sweep of his arm. 

“Feel free to fuck off,” Jonny smirks, but he sticks around; Patrick doesn’t miss the hidden glances Jonny sneaks at him, either…

This might pay off after all. 


	18. alternate captain kaner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> patrick gets the A, jonny gets ear stitches; they both get cuddles.

The mood is light in the locker room. 

It was a hard fought game, and as ugly as it might’ve been–a short staffed, straight up limp to the win–two points are two points. 

Style doesn’t matter on game seventy-eight, which is a good thing, because Jonny’s not getting any pretty points for that ear of his. 

Patrick can’t stop staring at it.  

Jonny gives his post-game speech, winded and red-faced, and Patrick just thinks about how really fucking gross it is the whole time, all bloody and stitched.

“Made it harder on ourselves than we needed to, eh, boys? Big fuckin’ goal by Bread Man to tie it up late there,” Jonny hoots, clapping in that way he does. Patrick chuckles to himself, eyes on the ear. 

“Wasn’t all pretty, but we didn’t fuckin’ quit and found a way to come away with both–a big two points there, boys. Be ready to do it again on Sunday, yeah? Let’s go.” 

Patrick hollers along, barely expending the energy to slap his thigh in makeshift claps; he’s tired as hell, amused and relieved all at once. He finally got a puck to go in the fucking net; Bread Man, too. All things Patrick’s happy about. 

Another thing he’s happy about, another thing he can’t stop doing: 

Touching the ‘A’ on his chest. 

He’d never admit it to anyone but himself and maybe Jonny, but he likes it. It’s not ideal, coming at the expense of Duncs and Hoss, but it makes him feel important, bigger than the goal scoring and sweet passes; and it’s short-term, he knows, but it feels significant, like tangible evidence that his leadership contributions mean something. 

And the way Jonny looks at him when he’s got it…

Patrick can’t get enough of it. 

“Looks good on you,” he’d said in warm-ups, huddled in close behind Patrick, nudging him in the small of his back, voice low. “Alternate Captain.” 

Patrick blushed, just like he’s blushing now with Jonny’s eyes on him as he unlaces his skates. Jonny smirks, eyes flicking down to it, gaze heavy. He’s up, undressed, and off to the showers before Patrick’s even taken it off. 

On his way, he swings by for a pointed visit, much to Patrick’s delight, running his hand over the embroidered letter, then brushes the apple of Patrick’s cheek with his knuckle. 

“Still looks good,” he whispers, and Patrick shamelessly taps his ass as he walks off. 

“That does, too,” Patrick answers. Jonny throws a sleazy look over his shoulder–his right shoulder–so Patrick gets another eye full of that ear and makes a gagging face at him. 

It’s so sick, and Patrick’s really not happy about it. One of his favorite things to do–and one of Jonny’s favorite things he does–is play with Jonny’s ears, just gently run his finger or tongue over the shell of them. It gets Jonny hot so fast, it’s stupid. 

Well, the right one is out of commission for a bit now, unfortunately. Jonny’s probably going to whine about it, too. 

*

That proves true on the plane, but Patrick doesn’t mind, obviously. 

Jonny can whine as much as he wants. 

They file on, and usually Patrick always takes the window seat, but before he can scoot in, Jonny huffs loudly in protest. 

“What? You want my window seat?” Patrick chuckles, taking in Jonny’s pouty face. 

“Well, I–sort of,” Jonny mutters. “I wanted to lay on you, ya know, and I can’t on this side, cuz’a my ear.” 

He’s so grumbly and pitiful, it’s adorable. Patrick obliges him immediately. 

“Sure, Jon,” he says, shuffling out of the way. “S’fine with me.” 

Jonny grins and sits down, immediately folding up the armrest so there’s nothing between them when Patrick joins. Teammates are filing on, and Jonny speaks to some of them briefly before they tune them out completely, easily slipping into their bubble. 

“Feelin’ okay?” Patrick asks once they’re settled; his arms around Jonny, Jonny’s face nuzzled into his neck, fingers gripping Patrick’s thigh. Jonny’s probably got a headache, or had a headache, anyway, before they drugged him up post-game–pucks to the side of the head will usually do that–so Patrick whispers, keeps his voice low, soothing.  

“Just sore, stings a little,” Jonny shrugs. 

“I meant your head, not your gross ear,” Patrick teases, kissing Jonny’s damp hair as he reaches up to card his fingers through it. 

“Hey! It’s not–” Jonny starts, then sighs, defeated. “Yeah, it’s pretty nasty, I guess.” 

“’Least I didn’t do it this time, huh?”

“I guess,” Jonny repeats. “Even though my face is _still_ fucked up.”

“Don’t talk about my favorite face like that,” Patrick admonishes, rewarded with a brush of Jonny’s lips against his neck. “Really though, I’m sorry you’re hurtin’, babe. We’ll put some stuff on it when we get home.” 

“Gonna fix me up?” Jonny asks, wrapping his arm around Patrick’s waist, squeezing tight, really making himself at home. 

“You can call me Dr. Kane,” Patrick tells him, reclining his seat to make them more comfortable, much to Seabs’s protests behind them, his long ass legs getting in the way. 

“I like Alternate Captain Kane better,” Jonny says, bringing his hand up to rest on Patrick’s chest where his ‘A’ would be, if he were wearing his sweater. 

“You’re really into that, huh?” Patrick replies, cheeks flushing, Jonny’s hand hot even through his shirt. 

“Mmm, yeah,” Jonny mumbles sleepily, undoubtedly feeling his painkillers at this point. “Gonna be the way it is one day, when we put Duncs and Seabs to pasture and you have it all the time.” 

Patrick feels a kick to the back of his seat, obviously Seabs, the fucking eavesdropper. Jonny doesn’t seem to care. 

“My alternate captain,” he ‘hmmm’s contentedly, tilting up to press a kiss to Patrick’s jaw. 

“Yours,” Patrick whispers back, cuddling his cheek into Jonny’s hair, listening as his breathing gets louder, evens with sleep, before they’ve even taxied to the runway. 

Patrick dozes shortly after and dreams of later days, with permanent ‘As’ and stitch-free ears… 


	19. hockey au, preggo kaner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mpreg. 
> 
> surprise morning sickness and first ultrasound.

“Jon–Jonny, I think I’ve–” Patrick gags, hunched over the toilet. “Got food poisoning. Call that fuckin’–” 

Patrick hurls, dry-heaving after a moment of puking up his soul. “–restaurant and tell ‘em I’m dyin’ and we’re suin’.” 

Jonny shuffles sleepily into the bathroom, squinting and rubbing his eyes. It’s early, Patrick knows this, but when you’re dying, you’re dying. Jonny shouldn’t have signed up for ‘in sickness and in health’ if he wasn’t prepared to get his lazy ass up out of bed when disaster strikes the household. 

“You sick?” he mumbles, and Patrick retches in response, forehead hot and clammy, despite the simultaneous full-body chills. 

“What’s it–” He gags again. “–sound like, _genius_?” 

“Shit, babe,” Jonny replies, waking up just enough for his concern to kick in. ‘Bout goddamn time. 

Patrick hears him at the sink, presumably wetting a washcloth, and soon after, he’s crowded in behind Patrick at the toilet, holding his hair, dabbing his hot, sweaty skin with the cool cloth. Feels nice, much better than the war going on in Patrick’s insides. 

“You don’t look so good,” Jonny remarks, craning around to get a look at him. “When’d you start feelin’ sick?”

“Right before I started pukin’ my guts up,” Patrick garbles unhelpfully. Jonny just rubs his shoulders soothingly. 

“Maybe you should go to the doctor instead of practice, eh?” 

“You think?” Patrick’s always grouchy when he’s sick. Jonny knows this. Jonny accepts this. 

Patrick figures he’ll go to the clinic while Jonny’s at practice, get a shot to kick this thing, and be completely assed out asleep by the time Jonny gets home. 

That is not what occurs. 

*

“What the fuck do you _mean_ I’m preg–"

Patrick can’t even say it, hands shaking, pulse racing. 

He can’t be. He can’t. No. No way. 

He’s been on birth control since he was eighteen, from the second he found out he was a carrier. 

His shit is on lock. 

Jonny’s come inside him more times than he could dare count over the years, and nothing’s ever happened because his shit is _on fucking lock_. 

“Sometimes, Mr. Kane, our bodies develop–immunity, so to speak, to the medicines we’re taking–a tolerance, if you will–and it’s necessary to change either the prescription or dosage or what have you. These things happen–”

“Not to _me_!” Patrick squawks. “My shit’s on lock! I can’t be–” 

Patrick still can’t say it. 

“I’m afraid you are, Mr. Kane,” the doctors repeats, sympathy in his voice. He knows just as well as Patrick does what this means–

His hockey career is as good as over. 

*

Rather than being assed out asleep when Jonny gets home, Patrick’s sobbing instead, curled up in a ball on the couch. 

“Patrick?” Jonny calls from the entryway. Patrick hears the clang of his keys on the counter, the thud of his bag as it hits the ground. “Where are ya?”

“Living room,” Patrick mumbles, tucking his knees further into his chest. 

“How’d the doctor go? You got a vir–” Jonny stalls in the doorway once he spots Patrick and assesses his condition. “Patrick, what’s wrong?” 

He practically sprints over, dropping down beside him on the couch. 

“I’m ruined,” Patrick says, dramatic as ever. “Done for.” 

“What the fuck–” Jonny chokes, alarm clear in his voice. Patrick should probably choose his words better. “What do you fucking mean? What did they say–”

“Jonny, I’m pregnant–there is a baby in me!” Patrick shouts, cutting right to the chase. Jonny gasps, hand stilling where it was rubbing over Patrick’s back. 

“Are you su–”

“Yes, I’m sure!” Patrick snaps. “I can’t believe this, Jonny.” 

“But I thought you were on–”

“I am! It betrayed me,” Patrick answers before Jonny can finish again. “My body’s betrayed me! I’ll never play hockey again!” 

“Oh, Patrick, yes you–” Jonny starts, then pauses long enough for Patrick to look up at him. He’s wearing a look Patrick’s never really seen before–loving, amazed, a bit overcome, to be honest, eyes prickling with tears. 

“Patrick, we’re having a baby.” 

“I know,” Patrick replies, and even though he’s not sure exactly how he feels about it, hockey-wise, the look of unbridled joy on Jonny’s face is enough to have him smiling back, just a little. 

“You’re having my baby,” Jonny reiterates, cupping his face gently. “I can’t–I don’t–I’m so–” 

“Spit it out, Jonathan.”

“Happy,” Jonny finishes. “You’re–we’re gonna be parents.” 

“My career is over,” Patrick points out. It’s not his intention to spoil Jonny’s fun here, but it’s the fucking truth. 

“S’just one season,” Jonny shrugs. “I think it’s a–it’s a pretty good trade off, yeah? For a baby? Our baby?” 

The way he says it, so full of love and pride, Patrick can’t help but agree. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about having kids with Jonny–how could he not, being one of a very small percentage of men who can even do it? He just always thought it’d be planned, on their time, after he’d willfully retired. 

“They could put you on LTIR, and next season you’ll be right back in there, eh? Good as new, but we’d–” 

“You’ve given this some thought, huh?” Patrick smirks, wiping the silent tears on Jonny’s face. Patrick’s getting old, sure, but perhaps a comeback isn’t impossible, now that he can see through his own panicked theatrics. 

“So much, you have no idea,” Jonny admits, resting their foreheads together. “Are you not ha–”

“I’m getting there,” Patrick says, not a fan of the hesitance creeping into Jonny’s voice. It’s a shock, absolutely, and sitting this season will probably be the sickest torture ever, but– “We’re having a baby, Jonny.” 

“We’re having a baby, Patrick,” Jonny repeats, smile in his voice, and presses their lips together, hand sliding to Patrick’s belly. 

 

* * *

 

 

Patrick couldn’t have scheduled a worse day for this ultrasound appointment. 

Jonny’s on a plane. Jonny’s gone. Jonny’s not here. 

Patrick can’t believe he’s about to listen to their little peanut’s heartbeat for the first time, all alone. It’s his own fault; he misread the schedule, or apparently had a lapse in brain function and forgot that the team would fly out the day _before_ an away game, and male pregnancy doctors are so hard to pin down, rescheduling is a nightmare. 

Anyway, fuck how it happened; that doesn’t matter. The results are the same: 

Patrick, a thirty-three year old grown-ass man, is about to cry at his ultrasound, before it’s even started, no less, alone on the examination table, waiting for the doctor. Unbelievable. 

The hard, white paper covering crinkles beneath him as he shifts, uncomfortable and too-hot in his skin, despite the typical frigid temperature inside the office. Patrick grips the paper’s edge in his hand, finger poking a hole through for him to pick at, so he does, ripping off little pieces and stacking them up. 

It’s helpful, in that it keeps him from fidgeting and gnawing his fingernails into the quick even more so than they already are; but it’s also wholly unhelpful, in that it doesn’t distract from the empty feeling in his chest, brought on by being here without Jonny. 

Patrick should not be doing this without him. Jonny agreed. 

He’d begrudgingly left about thirty minutes before Patrick had to, to go catch the plane to Arizona, mouth set in a miserable, hard line. 

“I can’t fucking belieeeve this,” he’d whined, as if Patrick didn’t feel bad enough. “I’m so sorry, baby.” 

“S’not your fault,” Patrick answered, equally as miserable, stuffing his face in Jonny’s chest.

“Text me so many pictures and stuff, okay?” Jonny demanded, hand between them, rubbing Patrick’s slightly distended belly. 

He agreed, biting back the urge to beg Jonny to stay; but the schedule is the schedule, and a fuck up is a fuck up. 

Patrick’s sure paying for it now. 

There’s a quiet knock at the door, and Patrick stupidly feels a shot of optimism that it could be Jonny, but of course, it’s just a nurse. 

Jonny’s on a plane. Jonny’s not here. 

Patrick doesn’t realize he’s actually crying until the nurse’s face turns from friendly to concerned. 

“Mr. Kane, is everything alright?” she asks, stepping into the room, door left ajar. 

“Yeah, I’m fine–I just, my husband is..” Patrick starts with a sniffle, gesturing to the empty room. “..not here, obviously.”

“Oh, no,” she replies, sympathetic. “On the road?”

Patrick can only assume she’s a Hawks fan–few people in the Chicago aren’t–and he and Jonny have been married for a while, happily out and about for longer, so he isn’t surprised that she knows the score here. 

“Yeah, appointment screw up. It was my fault,” Patrick replies honestly, only slightly embarrassed that he’s crying in front of a nurse, a fan. 

“I’m sure Mr. Toews wishes he was here with you,” she says comfortingly. “I can wait with you until–” 

“That won’t be necessary,” comes a voice from the door. “I’ll take it from here.”

Patrick jerks his head to the sound–the most beautiful, monotoned, Canadian sound he’s ever heard–face lighting up. 

“Jonny!” he shrieks. “What’re you! You’re here!” 

“I’m here,” Jonny confirms with a warm, apologetic smile. “Should’ve been from the start. I’m so sorry, Patrick.” 

He’s got his arms around Patrick in and instant, hands carding through Patrick’s ever-thinning curls. “I never should’ve left this morning, fucking _stupid_.” 

“How?” is all Patrick can manage, so overcome with joy and relief and comfort. 

Jonny’s not on a plane. Jonny’s not gone. Jonny’s here.

“I told Q I could fly out tonight, in the morning, or he could scratch me,” Jonny answers simply, shrugging dismissively. Patrick loves it when he puts his foot down. “I had no business not being here.”

Patrick can only agree. 

“I’m so happy you are,” he tells him, gazing up into loving, dark brown eyes. 

Jonny kisses him softly, cupping his face to wipe tears away with his thumbs.

“Me too.”

The wait isn’t so bad after that, and hearing their baby’s heartbeat for the first time, _together_ –

It’s a miracle. 


	20. end of season fluff [k/t hockey au]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After we hooked up, he started to cry and called his mom and told her he wanted to marry me."

Jonny collapses onto Patrick, hot and panting beneath him, with a satisfied, bliss-out grunt. He drags his lips along the back of Patrick’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sweaty skin there, nuzzling into the curls at his nape. 

Patrick shivers, twitching a little when Jonny slips out and musters the energy to slide off him, molding his body to Patrick’s side, tangling their legs together. 

After nine seasons, spent dancing around this thing between them for longer than anyone thought humanly possible, they finally gave it up. 

Jonny’s dedicated countless hours over the last decade to wondering what Patrick’s lips, that hot, gorgeous mouth, would feel like, moving against his or wrapped around his cock; what it would feel like, thrusting into the tight heat of Patrick’s body and hearing Patrick moan, beg him for more, to never stop. 

Jonny knows now, and it was better than he ever could’ve imagined. 

Giving into it was as easy as breathing; they fit together perfectly, completely. 

He only _thought_ he was in love with Patrick before…

“Peeks,” Jonny breathes, tracing his fingers over the soft skin of Patrick’s back and shoulders. He’s seen it so many times–pale and sparsely freckled–in the locker room, their hotel; but he’s never gotten to touch like this, like he’s always wanted to–delicately, showing of the love he’s always felt for Patrick. 

“Mmm,” Patrick hums in response; he’s facing away from Jonny, and suddenly, he’s afraid Patrick might be experiencing some regret, second guessing what was, without a doubt, one of the most significant moments of Jonny’s life. 

Patrick’s trembling, intermittent with light, full-body spasms, and Jonny assumes it’s just Patrick coming down from his orgasm, but when Jonny hears a sniffle, he’s not so sure anymore. 

“Patrick, was that?–you okay?” Jonny asks, concerned and panicky. Patrick shifts to look at him, smiling warmly at Jonny despite the–yes, those _are_ tears trickling from his eyes, and tucks himself into Jonny’s chest. 

“I’m so perfect, Jonny,” Patrick mumbles, kissing his jaw, lips obscenely red, swollen and used. Jonny blows out a breath, deflating in relief, and wraps his arms around him. “That was–amazing.” 

“Why you cryin’ then?” Jonny wonders, carding his fingers through Patrick’s hair. 

Jonny feels his answering shrug. 

“Just happy,” Patrick whispers. “It was–” 

“A lot?” Jonny supplies, because it really was–all-consuming…everything. 

“So much, babe,” Patrick echoes, and the endearment hits Jonny where he lives, proving to be something he needed that he never knew he wanted before.

Jonny has to kiss him then, pulling back to get his mouth on Patrick’s; he can feel Patrick’s tears against his cheeks, and he doesn’t care for that, but as long as they’re good ones, Jonny guesses he can deal. The kiss is easy, tender and loving, Patrick’s mouth soft, pliant against his, and much too soon, Patrick pulls away. 

“Be right back,” Patrick sniffles, tears renewed, and he moves quickly, slipping out of Jonny’s arms and off the bed, snatching his phone from the bedside table. 

“Where the hell’re you–” 

“I’ll be right back,” Patrick assures him, padding to the bathroom, naked and beautiful, and closes the door. 

Jonny flops to his back, feeling hot and tingly all over, if a little worried about Patrick despite his reassurance, and waits…and waits. 

After a minute, Jonny swears he hears Patrick talking, and he’s not nosey or clingy or anything (okay, maybe a little), but he goes to the bathroom door to check on him, anyway. He’s just opened his mouth to speak, readied his fist to knock, when he hears Patrick mumbling on the other side and strains to listen. 

“I’m just tellin’ you what’s up, Ma–I’m marrying Jonathan, so ready the troops.”

There’s a pause. 

Jonny can’t breathe. 

“No! Not soon, nobody’s asked anybody anything, but one day. I’m just so–I love him so damn much.” 

Jonny could die where he stands, gripping his hands into tight fists to keep from barging into the bathroom. 

“I know. We’re stupid,” Patrick admits, sheepish in response to whatever his mom’s just said. “But we’ve got it now.” 

Jonny groans, forehead thunking against the door, and he knows he’s just given himself up, but–

“Hang on,” Jonny hears, then the door flings open. 

Jonny stumbles into him, and Patrick laughs. 

“Let me call you back. Got a sneaky one on my hands here,” he says, and hangs up the phone, depositing it on the counter. 

“How much’a that did you hear?”

It’s taking everything Jonny’s got not to just throw himself at Patrick, crush their mouths together and chase those wonderful words Jonny just heard him say. 

“Enough,” Jonny answers with a smile, unremorseful about the eavesdropping. 

Patrick cheeks flush, diverting his gaze, like he’s shy about it or something, but Jonny’s not; he steps into Patrick’s space, cupping his jaw to tilt his face up and kiss him deeply, breathing him in. Patrick clutches Jonny’s hips, hands sliding up his body, and Jonny shivers when he feels Patrick’s dick, hardening again, against his upper thigh. 

“Love you so damn much, too,” Jonny mumbles against the corner of Patrick’s mouth, then grins, repeating Patrick’s words to his mom: 

“So, ready the troops.” 


	21. on-ice kisses, or something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jonny may or may not have kissed patrick on the ice after his game five OT GWG...

“Good fucking job, babe,” Jonny says emphatically, pecking Patrick on his cheek, natural and unthinking; it happens so fast, Jonny has no time, nor the presence of mind after nearly five periods of hockey, to stop himself.

Patrick’s eyes go wide, despite the beaming grin on his face, then he levels Jonny with a smirk to kill.

What a rookie mistake.

Jonny shakes his head as he skates off, hooting and hollering with the boys, cheeks flushed and hot from more than double-overtime exhaustion. Of all the moments Jonny’s wanted to put his mouth on Patrick on ice, he’s a little shocked at himself for fucking up now, to be quite honest. What a lapse in self control, eh?

That goal was something else, though—the way Patrick just _takes over_ like that, shines in those big moments… Christ, Jonny feels a shiver down his spine just thinking about it. Patrick’s hockey is hot, simple as that; he almost can’t even blame himself.

Jonny knows he’ll hear about it soon enough.

He waits just inside the tunnel to fist bump everyone as they walk through to the locker room. Jonny gives Crow as much love as he can muster, because he saved their asses on several— _several_ —occasions tonight; roughs up Arty and Bread Man, per usual; and waits for Patrick, who drags ass in near to last.

His chinstrap is undone, helmet tipped back in that inexplicably sexy way he does after games, and it does nothing to curb Jonny’s desire to kiss him again.

He’s still wearing that same stupid smirk.

Jonny takes his hand, still gloved, and pulls him in for a hug.

“Couldn’t even wait two minutes, huh?” Patrick asks, in close, reaching up to grip Jonny’s collar like he always does.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie, Jon,” Patrick grins, licking his lips and pulling away so they can follow after the team. “You know you want everyone to know you’re hittin’ this.”

“Maybe so,” Jonny replies, bumping his shoulder.

“They probably already do, in all honesty,” Patrick says, raising an accusatory eyebrow. “You’re not subtle.”

“I am, too!” Jonny defends…or, at least…he sort of tries to be, sometimes.

“You are not,” Patrick insists with a chuckle, like what he’s saying is obvious and indisputable truth. Jonny huffs, barely resisting the urge to give him a face wash.

“Oh, whatever, maybe I’ll—”

Patrick grabs Jonny by the arm to stop him, presses their sides together, coaching staff and equipment guys all around.

“Make no mistake, Jonny—I fucking love it,” Patrick tells him, voice low, and leans up to kiss Jonny on the corner of his mouth, lightning fast, before he’s off and down the tunnel, leaving Jonny open-mouthed and staring after him.

Always upping his damn game, no matter the stage…


	22. welcome home, dork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> otp prompt: 
> 
> yes yes good 
> 
> BUT
> 
> who in your otp waits at the airport for the other while holding a huge, bedazzled poster 
> 
> emblazoned with the word NERD
> 
> (I went with DORK instead)

Jonny’s tired and grumpy and miserable and nauseous. 

His flight was brutal, turbulent and much too long, the kid next to him crying and screaming on and off for its entirety. The food was terrible, only made worse when Jonny decided to wear some of it, spilling the chunky, processed soup onto his lap in the midst of a jolt. 

Jonny just wants to get his carry-on, get the fuck off, go home with Patrick and sleep for two days. 

When they finally–finally!–open the door after what felt like an extra hour in addition to the twenty-minute, snail’s pace taxi to the gate, Jonny stands and muscles his way into the aisle. He’s on a mission, which partly includes not murdering someone from here to the baggage claim. 

“Enjoy the rest of your day!” the too-chipper flight attendant says, and Jonny actually has to bite his tongue to keep from telling her to fuck off. He attempts to smile, but based on her reaction, it was more of a grimace. 

Oh well. 

Jonny trudges through the airport, thankful his bag has wheels, because if it didn’t, he’d probably just be dragging it behind him, anyway. He follows the familiar path to the baggage claim, where he knows Patrick will be waiting for him–or at least he better be; Jonny might actually blow a gasket if he’s late. 

This has been his longest business trip in some time, and he’s unsure if not seeing Patrick for two weeks is adding to his shit mood, but he suspects it could be. 

That’s confirmed just moments later. 

Jonny steps onto the escalator and scans the level below for Patrick, and well–

He’s certainly not easy to miss, standing there with the brightest smile plastered on his face and a huge, fucking bedazzled poster in his hands that reads: **WELCOME HOME, DORK** in sparkly, purple letters. 

Jonny’s answering smile is instant, all the misery from his late night and shitty flight erased, wiped away at the sight of his ridiculously beautiful (and _not-_ funny or clever at all) boyfriend. 

He does his best not to run to Patrick when escalator meets floor, a newfound spring in his step upon seeing him. Fuck, Jonny missed him.  

“Hey, baby!” Patrick calls, waving the poster in a ‘look at his!–look what I made!’ gesture before dropping it to the floor and folding himself into Jonny’s arms. 

Jonny squeezes him tightly, breathing him in and nuzzling into his curls; he smells just the same as Jonny remembers: like his floral, expensive fucking shampoo, like warmth and comfort and home. 

“You’re the worst,” Jonny mumbles, thinking of the sign between them. Patrick always knows how to make him laugh, though, even if it’s at his own expense. 

“You missed me,” Patrick replies, very matter of fact, tilting back to look up at him; he reaches to smooth his hand over Jonny’s face, cradle it gently, and Jonny shamelessly leans into it, closing his eyes, and drawing in a shaky breath. 

“So much,” Jonny agrees and leans down to press his lips to Patrick’s, mouthing against them, “nerd.” 


	23. thanks dood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by twitter shenanigans.

**Jonathan Toews: @88PKane thanks dood.. Who is aging faster?**

* * *

Jonny looks so unmistakably pleased with himself, face set in a shit-eating, playful grin at the other end of the couch, watching as Patrick reads his Twitter response, that Patrick almost forgets it’s meant to get a rise out of him and he should be acting accordingly. 

It’s one of few times Jonny’s looked genuinely happy since they lost, and obviously Patrick’s a walking embodiment of misery right there with him, but it’s just nice to see, is all. 

“Oh, what the–come _on_!” Patrick scoffs in faux offense. “Player misconduct, number nineteen, unnecessary blow to the head.” 

Patrick slides a hand through his hair, feeling the places where it’s undeniably thinning, and Jonny cracks up, eyes crinkling and nose scrunching, and stretches his feet out to rub along Patrick’s shin. He’s a little drunk, loose and giggly; they both are. It’s Jonny’s birthday, duh. 

“You’re gonna be just as bald as me,” Patrick points out, circling his fingers around Jonny’s ankle. 

“But you’ll be first,” Jonny chuckles, “and that’s what I said.” 

Patrick narrows his eyes. “Uh huh, keep it up. See if you ever get that follow-back.” 

Jonny’s brow furrows immediately, and he digs his big toe into Patrick’s thigh.

“Ow, fuck,” Patrick hisses, smacking him away. He won’t lie, he’s been purposefully torturing Jonny with that shit, just to watch him squirm. It’s pretty funny. He just gets huffier and huffier, but still tries to pretend it doesn’t bother him. Patrick will have a bruise on his leg here that suggests otherwise. 

“You’re not very nice,” Jonny mumbles. “It’s rude to leave people hanging.” 

“You mean it’s rude to leave _you_ hanging,” Patrick amends, crawling down to him, phone in hand. He’s got Jonny’s Twitter up, and he makes a show of hovering his thumb over the ‘Follow’ button, then laughs mockingly and closes it out. 

“Ugh, yeah, _me_!” Jonny agrees, sticking his tongue out like the twenty-eight-year-old grown man he is. 

“You gotta earn my follow, baby,” Patrick says, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s a hot commodity, just like–” 

“Just like you, yeah yeah,” Jonny interrupts, grabbing Patrick and pulling him down on top. “I hear ya.” 

Patrick braces his arms on either side of Jonny’s head, straddling his hips and pressing their groins together. Jonny clutches his ass, squeezing hard and grinding Patrick down harder, eliciting a grown and soft moan from each of them, respectively. Feels so fucking good, their sweatpants adding friction to the drag, Patrick’s dick already beginning to stiffen. 

If there’s any upside to a long offseason–and there are basically none, obviously; Patrick would sell a kidney to be back in the playoffs–it’s the ample opportunity it provides for them to be together, like this, whenever they want, as much as they want. 

“I’ll fucking earn it, alright,” Jonny says, voice low and rough, leaning up to kiss the corner of Patrick’s mouth. Then he shakes his head, like he’s just remembered something crucial as fuck. “Wait a–it’s _my_ birthday. I shouldn’t have to _earn_ stuff.” 

Patrick laughs and kisses him, just a quick press of mouths, before pulling away with a proposition.

“Okay, listen,” he starts, business-like. “I can follow you on Twitter, or–” 

Patrick leans in close, lips brushing Jonny’s ear. Jonny’s hands grip tightly at his hips, then slide slowly up his back to fist in Patrick’s curls. 

“–we could have sex in every room of this house.” 

Jonny’s dicks twitches against him, and Patrick nips at his earlobe. 

“Fuck Twitter,” Jonny answers with a shiver, and Patrick grins. 

“Fuck _me_.” 


	24. medical au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nurse kane and doctor toews.

Patrick’s dead on his feet, leaned against the nurses’ station, arms pillowed beneath his weary head. 

Three night shifts in a row was a piss-poor choice, but–ulterior motives aside–someone’s got to watch all these babies, don’t they? If a job is to be done correctly, sometimes you’ve got to sacrifice sleep and sanity to do it yourself. 

He yawns dramatically, and despite the overwhelming desire to let his eyes drift closed, he doesn’t, because–

Dr. Toews is across the lobby, chatting up a tiny patient’s family, looking devastatingly attractive in his dark blue scrubs and white lab coat. Even underneath those layers, his ass still stands out plain as day; Patrick could bounce a fucking quarter off that thing. He hasn’t tried it, but he knows he could. 

Patrick’s been–he won’t say _crushing_ , because that’s lame as fuck, but there’s no denying he’s taken a couple extra shifts here and there, just in case Dr. Toews wants Patrick on his service or something. He’s just here to help save baby lives is all, and doing it in the presence of a surgical god as criminally handsome as Dr. Toews is only an additional perk that Patrick’s prepared to exploit to the fullest extent. 

He’s still holding his breath for the day they have a non-work related conversation. Dr. Toews asked him to borrow a pen last week, and Patrick offered him three different ones–red, black, and blue ink–just to be thorough. He took the black with a small smile and a “thank you, Patrick,” and Patrick didn’t even ask for it back, even though he’s very particular about his pens (and most other things). 

“Still ogling Toews?” Sharpy asks, interrupting Patrick’s–well, ogling. Whatever.

“No,” Patrick denies, offended. “I’m just resting my eyes.” 

“ _On_ Toews,” Sharpy adds with a snicker. “You don’t have to lie to me, Peekaboo. I see and know all things.” 

“You don’t see or know shit,” Patrick retorts, righting himself and straightening his powder pink scrubs; they’re a peds thing, Patrick doesn’t mind them. 

“I know everyone in this hospital can see the massive boner you’re sportin’ for him,” Sharpy accuses, and Patrick looks down at his crotch on instinct, sighing in relief when everything seems to be in order. 

That was one fucking time, okay? 

Sharpy laughs, loud and obnoxious, and pats Patrick on the shoulder. “If you’d just talk to him, man–he ogles you back, too.”

“Oh, he does not,” Patrick blushes. “He’s an attending.” 

“ _I’m_ an attending,” Sharpy says, though the point is irrelevant; there’s a big difference in being friends with an attending, especially one you knew before starting a job somewhere and–

“What’s that matter?” Patrick asks. “I’m not trying to bang you.” 

“Oooh, so now you’re trying to _bang_ him,” Sharpy drawls. “Oookay, tiger.” 

Patrick opens his mouth to let out a string of profanity and nearly swallows his tongue because–

Dr. Toews is headed in their direction, a warm, curious smile on his face, dark eyes on Patrick. 

“Jonathan!” Sharpy muses, announcing Dr. Toews’s approach with a sly grin. 

This will not be good. Patrick wants to go hide in a supply closet and die.  

“Sharp,” Dr. Toews answers curtly, leaning casually against the nurses’ station, chart in hand. “What’re you two chatting about, eh?” 

“Oh, Patrick here was just telling me how he’s _dying_ to scrub in on your foreign object retrieval later. Isn’t that right, Patrick?” Sharpy says, elbowing him like an asshole. Patrick’s face is probably ten shades of red right now, clashing horribly with his scrubs. What a fucking disaster. 

“Oh yeah?” Dr. Toews inquires, perking up just as Patrick’s stuttering a quick denial. 

“ _No_ , I–” Patrick starts, then recovers, “I mean, of course I’d love to. Some kid swallowed a Lego, right?” 

“A racecar,” Dr. Toews corrects, grimacing. “Hot Wheels, I think.” 

“Wow,” Patrick mouths. 

“I _know_ ,” Dr. Toews grins, a twinkle in his eye that only comes from the prospect of a cool surgery; no matter how long a doctor’s been in the game, Patrick still sees it all the time, and he knows Dr. Toews, in particular, is hungry to be the best and see it all. 

Patrick loves nerding out about this kind of shit, too. He’s just a nurse, yeah, so he’s got no authority in an OR, but getting to watch and assist with surgeries is the most interesting part of his job. 

Dr. Toews talks to him briefly about the procedure, and Patrick’s so engrossed, he doesn’t even notice that Sharpy’s bounced, the slick motherfucker. 

“So, I’ll see you in there, yes?” Dr. Toews asks, and Patrick’s eyes go wide.

“You’re really going to let me?” 

“Sure, yeah, of course,” Dr. Toews replies with a smile, “If you’re up for it. You’ve been–you’ve had a lot of shifts lately.” 

Patrick’s mouth falls open a little. He hasn’t been on Dr. Toews’s service in such a long time, but he–he noticed, that Patrick was here, that he’s been working a lot. 

Dr. Toews notices him. 

“I’m–yeah, I’m good to go, absolutely,” Patrick assures him, and Dr. Toews looks satisfied. 

“Nine o’clock, then.” 

“Nine o’clock,” Patrick repeats, and watches him as he goes. 

* * *

The surgery is amazing. Dr. Toews is amazing. Everything is amazing. 

Except for the part where Patrick embarrassed himself and yawned, mid-extraction–the best fucking part. It had nothing to do with his interest level and everything to do with all those shifts and no sleep. 

Of course Dr. Toews noticed, of course he did. 

 

Patrick’s shaking his head to himself as he scrubs out, when he hears a throat clear behind him. 

“You should take the night, Patrick,” Dr. Toews suggests, twisting his scrub cap in his hands. He looks…nervous, which is strange. Patrick’s never seen him look anything but steady and sure and confident and sexy and–okay, that’s enough.

“I–Dr. Toews, I’m _so_ sorry about that. I–”

“Call me Jonathan,” Dr. Toews says, shocking the hell out of Patrick. “Please.” 

“But we’re at the hospital?” Patrick answers stupidly. 

“So, if we saw each other outside the hospital, you’d be okay to call me Jonathan?” he asks, then pauses. “Oh say, at, uh, dinner, or something?”

“Dinner?” Patrick repeats, equally as stupid, heart beating fast in his chest. 

This is not happening. Patrick has fallen asleep, and this is a dream. He wants to pinch himself, but decides better of it; he’s embarrassed himself in front of Dr. Toews– _Jonathan_ –enough.  

“Can I take you out, Patrick?” he asks again, an explicit invitation this time. “To dinner or for drinks? Or both?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer, but–

“After you’ve gone home slept, of course,” Jonathan hastily adds. “Maybe tomorrow night? I’m not on call.” 

“I–Yes, absolutely,” Patrick nods, and Jonathan nods back, pleased as ever. 

He reaches up, much to Patrick’s surprise–again–and lightly brushes a knuckle over Patrick’s cheekbone. Patrick’s breath catches in his throat, and he’s legitimately worried he might faint. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Jonathan breathes out, eyes dropping to Patrick’s mouth then back up to meet his. “Be sure to get some rest.” 

“ _So_ looking forward to it,” Patrick echoes lamely, shivering at the possible implications, and he watches as Jonathan walks away–not with longing this time, but with anticipation…


	25. the last go around [retirement au]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last game at the UC, on ice make out.

The clock winds down to zero, horn sounding, but Jonny can barely hear it over the noise of the crowd. The fans have been on their feet for the last three solid minutes, cheering and clapping and chanting. 

Sending them off right. 

Jonny draws in a shaky breath, lungs burning after a long, final shift, and glances up at the rafters. It’s brief, but in that moment, their career, their life together–his and Patrick’s–flashes before his eyes. 

Every on-ice argument and off-ice make up. 

Every goal. Every overzealous celly, on Patrick’s part, of course. 

Every teammate come and gone. Every late night flight and hotel stay. 

Every media obligation. Every stupid Chevy commercial. Every All-Star Game. 

Every playoff series. Every Game 7. Every overtime winner. 

Every Cup. Every parade. Every banner.

They’re hanging there now–all five–and Jonny’s eyes sting as he looks at them.

He can’t believe it’s coming to a close, but he’s satisfied with what they’ve accomplished, which is something he never thought he’d say, in his younger days, when he never thought he’d get enough, never have enough, never win enough. 

He had a decent game tonight, with an assist, though his minutes have gotten marginally easier over the years; he can’t battle quite like he used to, isn’t as strong on the puck. 

Patrick had a nifty goal to show for their last one. He’s still got the best hands in the league, in Jonny’s opinion; he’s lost a bit of that explosiveness, though, in his first step, lost some of that evasiveness. He’s had to work harder for his chances, but he’s still as dangerous as ever when he gets them. 

Jonny will miss that the most, he thinks, watching Patrick, creating space for him to do his thing. His assist tonight was on Patrick’s goal, and he can’t think of a better way for it to have ended–a 1-0 shutout, at home. 

Jonny feels a gloved hand slide around his, as they gather at center ice for the crowd salute. Jonny doesn’t have to look to know who it is, but he does anyway. 

There are tears in Patrick’s red-rimmed eyes, a small, wistful smile on his face; his chinstrap is undone, helmet pushed back on his forehead, like he’s done for as long as Jonny can remember. 

He lets his eyes roam over Patrick’s body, to commit this moment to memory, the sight of Patrick out here, and squeezes his hand. They’re old now–in hockey years, anyway–bodies much different, in look and function, than they were in the beginning; aside from his own, Jonny doesn’t know anybody else’s body like he knows Patrick’s, and he’s never been more in awe of what another’s could do. 

The only consolation is that Jonny gets to keep that, keep him. Patrick’s something he knows he’ll never lose. 

That makes it so easy, as easy as raising his stick to the crowd, as easy as breathing, to tip Patrick’s helmet off completely, remove his own as well, and bend down to kiss him, hard and desperate. 

Patrick gasps into his mouth and pulls back just slightly. 

“Jonny?” 

“I _love_ you,” Jonny says. “I want everybody to know it, don’t you?” 

Patrick searches his eyes for a split second then drops his gloves, as if he’s ready to fight, and clutches Jonny’s face, crushing their mouths together again, smiling into the kiss. 

The crowd is deafening now, teammates circled around them, tapping their sticks on the ice, but Jonny barely registers any of it. 

The only thing on his mind is Patrick, his constant, as he’s always been…


	26. kaner's puppies

Jonny’s moping on the couch, feeling every bit of twenty-eight and bummed about it, with Isla Fisher curled up at his feet to keep them warm and toasty. 

She and Jonny have become pretty good buddies since Patrick brought her home that day all those months ago, just a cold, skinny little kitten chasing a shoestring in their living room. She doesn’t listen for shit, and she always meows incessantly outside the bedroom door when Jonny shuts it at night so he and Patrick can have sex in peace without her beady little eyes watching them; but other than that, she’s a decent cat, as far as cats go, anyway.

Jonny’s just switched the channel to GSN, hoping Steve Harvey and the idiots on Family Feud can lift his spirits, when he hears Patrick pull that atrocious Hummer into the garage, back much too quickly from his grocery store run. Seconds later, the door opens and shuts; there’s no rustling of sacks, only the sound of keys hitting the counter.  

“Hey, Jonny?” Patrick calls hesitantly, and Jonny can tell by his tone alone that he’s in for it. “Could you c’mere for a minute?”

“Yeah,” Jonny answers, blowing out a breath as he nudges Isla off him and heaves himself up off the couch. 

As soon as Jonny rounds into the kitchen, Patrick’s there, hands raised in a cautious gesture. 

“Don’t freak out,” he says, and Jonny narrows his eyes. 

“That’s probably not how you should begin a conversation unless you want me to, you know, freak out,” Jonny replies, and Patrick saunters over, wrapping his arms around Jonny’s neck and pressing their bodies together.  

“Baby,” Patrick starts innocently, batting his stupidly long eyelashes, stretching up on his tiptoes to kiss Jonny softly, fingers playing in the hair at Jonny’s nape. “You know how much I love you, yeah?” 

Jonny’s instantly skeptical. Isla Fisher is, too, if the way she’s circling their feet and sniffing weirdly at Patrick’s legs is any indication. 

“What did you do?” Jonny asks flatly, and Patrick actually has the balls to look offended by the accusation. 

“ _Me_? Nothing, nothing,” he lies coolly–and Jonny can tell that it is, in fact, a lie–hands sliding down Jonny’s chest. “Can’t a guy just come home from the grocery store and tell his man how much he loves him?”

Jonny might fall into this trap, if he didn’t know better. Instead, he replies, “Not with no groceries and a face as suspicious as yours, he can’t.” 

“Okay, okay, fine,” Patrick huffs in surrender, taking Jonny’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “Come with me.” 

Patrick tugs him to the garage, and right before he turns the knob, eyes adorably pleading, he says, “Hear me out, okay?” then he opens the door, and all Jonny can hear is–

Puppies. 

So. Many. Puppies. 

“Patrick!” Jonny admonishes, “why’re there a zillion puppies in a box in our garage?” 

“Six, Jon, there’s only six,” Patrick corrects, bending down and scooping one into his arms; they look like a labrador mix of some sort, destined to be large dogs, with big paws and cute, floppy ears. 

“In our garage?” Jonny presses, as Patrick strategically avoided that portion of the inquiry. 

“Jonathan, I found these puppies in this box under an overpass!” Patrick dramatically recounts. “I almost died saving them!” 

“Oh, you did, huh?” Jonny deadpans, scratching the little guy behind its ear. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

“Isla was just one cat!” Patrick defends, though that doesn’t help his case much. 

“So you agree you’re just getting worse, then?” Jonny says. “We’re _not_ keeping all these puppies, Patrick.” 

“I know, I know, but,” Patrick mumbles, poking out his bottom lip. “We have a big yard, Jonny. We can’t just–We could like, foster them, yeah? Until we can find homes for them?”

“You’re allergic!” Jonny reminds him. 

“That’s what Zyrtec is for, Jonny,” Patrick says. “Zyr-tec!” 

“Ughhh,” Jonny groans, spotting that look in Patrick’s eyes, the one he can’t say no to under any fucking circumstances. “Patriiick.”

“Look at their little abandoned faces, babe,” Patrick pouts, effectively hammering the nail in Jonny’s coffin. “We have to help them.” 

“Isla Fisher is _not_ going to appreciate this,” Jonny replies, and Patrick beams at him. 

“So you’re saying yes?”

“I’m saying you’re the worst,” Jonny answers, picking up a puppy of his own–the runt, he assumes–and rubs its soft belly. 

“You’re the best, Jon,” Patrick says, grabbing the back of Jonny’s neck to haul him down for a kiss him. Only two seconds into it, there’s a puppy licking Jonny in the face, and he reluctantly accepts that’ll probably be the case for the rest of the summer.

* * *

Later, he and Patrick are literally in a puppy pile atop some blankets in the floor, and Jonny has to admit, it’s kind of nice. Patrick’s head is pillowed on his shoulder, Isla Fisher snuggled into his neck, and there are puppies in all the spaces in between. 

He never thought cuddling with Patrick could get any better, but it turns out, throwing in six puppies and a grumpy cat can make a person feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy. 


	27. fucking in november

Jonny’s phone vibrates in his pocket as he walks to the plane, bag slung over his shoulder. 

It’s warm in Los Angeles–too warm for near-midnight, if you ask Jonny–and he’s more than ready to get back to the cool, crisp air of Chicago for their upcoming homestand. 

They’ve just won the first of a back-to-back, and Jonny’s beat, the adrenaline rush of overtime wearing off to leave exhaustion and weary muscles. He settles into his seat and pulls out his phone to check his message. It’s from Patrick, of course, and it’s not congratulatory in nature, though Jonny knows he was at home, glued to the television the entire time, as he always is. 

All it says is: 

> _my body is ready._

Jonny doesn’t know exactly what Patrick means, but he likes the sound of it already. He types a reply: 

> _for what?_

 

> _it’s november jon!!_

Oh yeah. Right. It _is_ November. That means–

His phone buzzes again:  

> _that means time to put a baby in me. u promised this year!!_

And again: 

> _r u gettin cold feet?!_

Jonny’s never met a teacher with such shit texting habits, but alas. He quickly responds, lest Patrick grow more flustered than he already seems to be. He’s read that stress isn’t good for conception. 

> _no babe, of course not. my body’s ready too._

Patrick answers immediately: 

> _sure ur tired tho huh? guess i’ll just ride u when u get here ;))))_

Jonny finds he’s not so tired after that. 

* * *

They fuck when Jonny gets home, even though it’s ass o’clock in the morning.

Patrick wants to fuck again the next day, a couple hours before Jonny leaves for the UC, but he reluctantly puts his foot down. 

“It’s a day game, Patrick,” Jonny says. “You know once we get goin’ I’ll just wear myself out.” 

“This is important, Jonny,” Patrick pouts, and Jonny wraps his arms around him, presses his lips to Patrick’s forehead. 

“It’s so fucking important,” he agrees. “But look, the game is early, so we’ll have all night, eh?” 

“Multiple rounds?” 

“As many as my dick will allow,” Jonny replies, and Patrick smiles, satisfied, and kisses Jonny lovingly before he goes to shower. 

* * *

They win this game in regulation, thank god–a goal and an assist for Jonny–and Patrick’s waiting in the players’ lounge after it’s over, as per usual after home games. 

Jonny goes straight to him, and Patrick holds out his hand for a fist bump. 

“Good shit, baby,” Patrick praises. “Gave ‘em hell out there, and that goal–fuck me.” 

Jonny blushes and shrugs, “Got a good pass, is all.”

Patrick clicks his tongue disapprovingly and tugs Jonny in, hands dipping shamelessly into Jonny’s back pockets to hold him close. “Yeah, after you busted this ass to get in perfect position, don’t give me that captain humble bullshit.” 

“It was alright,” Jonny concedes with a grin, leaning in for what he intends to be a quick kiss. Patrick pushes it too far, because he always does, skillfully sucking at Jonny’s bottom lip in front of players’ wives and kids toddling about. 

Jonny groans quietly and pulls away at the sound of a throat pointedly clearing. Patrick doesn’t move far, just lays his head against Jonny’s chest, turned to look at Brent, standing uncomfortably beside them. 

“I didn’t wanna, ya know, interrupt, but Dayna made me,” Brent starts apologetically. “She’s, uh–we’re havin’ people over for dinner, if you two lovebirds are interested.”

Jonny feels Patrick chuckle in his arms, and he opens his mouth to answer, but before he can get a word out, Patrick’s doing the job for him, blunt and honest as ever. 

“No can do, Seabsie,” he says, matter of fact. “I’ve got a date with Jonny’s dick this afternoon.”

“Christ, Kaner,” Brent replies, aghast, looking around to make sure there aren’t any children within earshot. “Spare me the details, how ‘bout it?”

“That wasn’t detailed at all,” Patrick says, just fucking with him now. “I could though, if you–” 

“I don’t think he does, Patrick,” Jonny interrupts, then looks to Brent. “Tell Dayna we’ll be there next time, okay?”

“I’m never invitin’ you to anything ever again, so..” Brent trails off, and Patrick huffs. 

“Give us a break, man. Time is of the essence with the baby-making!”

“Dear God,” Brent groans, retreating slowly. “Good luck, then, I guess.” 

“Thanks,” Patrick answers sincerely, turning back to face Jonny. “I feel good about this time, Jonny, don’t you?” 

Jonny brushes a curl behind Patrick’s ear and says, “I feel good about every time.” 

Patrick’s cheeks flush, just slightly. “That’s what I like to hear,” he replies sweetly, and suddenly, Jonny can’t wait another minute to get him home…


	28. college/library au

Patrick’s worked at the library for almost a full semester now. 

It’s not the most thrilling job–the hours could be better, the place is eerily quiet, people suck at putting stuff back where it goes, and he always leaves smelling like old, dusty books–but at least he’s not flipping burgers at the on-campus restaurant. 

There’s pretty much only a single perk to the gig, aside from the paycheck itself, and it’s more than enough to cancel out all that other shit. 

Jonathan Toews. 

Patrick’s never seen a single human study as much or check out as many books as he does, ever. He comes in every single day, without fail, always when Patrick’s working; it’s like he’s memorized his schedule or something. 

The first couple weeks, it was hit or miss. Patrick would see him, or he wouldn’t; it’s not like he was waiting for him to come in or anything, (okay, he totally was), so it didn’t stand out as obvious to start. 

Over time, however, it’s become a consistent thing, Jonathan coming in like clockwork, backpack slung over his shoulder. It took a week or so of watching from afar before Jonathan eventually started approaching Patrick to ask for something–“I think this stupid scanner is broken,” “My student log-in isn’t working. Help me?” ”Could you show me where the WWI section is? I have a paper.”

Since then, it’s escalated into some extremely lame version of flirting that Patrick, for some inexplicable reason, is so easy for. 

“Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” Jonathan asks, the dork, and deposits three books on the counter for return on this, a dreary Wednesday afternoon.

Patrick’s feet are slung up on the desk, book of his own in his lap to create the illusion of a studious environment; he finds people are less likely to bother him with things if he looks busy. Not Jonathan, though–not that his presence is a bother. Patrick loves this. 

“Oh, I’m killin’ it back here,” Patrick yawns. “Can’t you tell?” 

Jonathan chuckles quietly, respectful of the noise rules. “What’cha reading?” he inquires, having the nerve to actually sound interested.

That’s another thing–this guy’s sincerity level is off the charts, but it’s not annoying or try-hardy; it’s just–he’s genuinely a great dude, and it makes Patrick’s fucking heart clench in his chest just thinking about it. Last week, he offered to help Patrick re-shelve books–re-shelve books! And when Patrick tried to spare him the misery, Jonathan shrugged and said “I really don’t mind, Patrick. I want to,” and Patrick wanted his company so badly that he caved. 

“The back of my eyelids, mostly,” Patrick smirks, nodding to the books. “How’d those work for you?” 

“Better for me than the Romanovs,” Jonathan replies, pleased with himself, and Patrick’s face must look more confused than shocked by his lame, so Jonathan elaborates on his own joke, which only makes it worse. “You know, they were executed by the Bolsh–”

“By the Bolsheviks, I know,” Patrick snickers. “You’re a riot, man.” 

“Thanks, I guess?” 

“No, I mean it,” Patrick says, scanning the books. Jonathan’s never once been late on a return date, not even close. “You’ve got a real future in stand up comedy with that material.” 

“Ha-ha,” Jonathan deadpans, cheeks flushing. “Maybe I’ll go tell my jokes to someone who appreciates them, then.”

“Oh, no, you will not,” Patrick says before thinking, words falling possessively from his mouth, but Jonathan looks so satisfied with the answer that Patrick just goes with it. “I’m plenty appreciative. Can’t go spreadin’ all that lame around, anyway.” 

The flush has wandered to the tips of Jonathan’s ears now, and Patrick has the sudden urge to run his tongue along the shell of it, see if it feels as hot as it looks; that desire carries over to a lot of Jonathan’s body parts, if Patrick’s honest. 

“Good to know,” Jonathan says, ignoring the jibe and drumming his fingers on the counter like he’s buying time to stay longer. “I guess I’ll, uh, see you around, then.” 

“Yeah, for sure,” Patrick replies. “Let me know if you need anything else.” 

Jonathan walks away, and Patrick feels unmistakably bereft in his absence. 

*

The feeling doesn’t last long because Jonathan’s at the desk again in under five minutes, breathing hard like he fucking ran back to the library. 

“I thought of something else I need,” Jonathan announces, and Patrick waves his hand in a ‘go-on’ gesture. “You,” he blurts, then snaps his mouth closed, biting his lip. 

“Forward,” Patrick grins, then pauses to watch Jonathan squirm, but also to calm his racing pulse before he faints or squeals in triumph. “I like it.” 

“Patrick,” Jonathan breathes out, arms braced on the counter. 

“You want to check me out of this library?” 

“And out to dinner and maybe out of those clothes at some point,” Jonathan adds with a recovered confidence that has Patrick’s dick even more interested than it was to start. 

“I’ll just need to see your student ID, and then we’ll–”

“ _Patrick_ ,” Jonathan stresses, and okay, Patrick’s ready to cut the shit, too. 

So ready, in fact, that he stands and half-lunges across the counter to get to Jonathan’s mouth, moaning shamelessly into the kiss, Jonathan’s hands clutching his face. 

His lips are exactly as hot as they look, Patrick’s pleased to discover, and so is the rest of him… 


	29. reunion au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> old feelings resurface at jonny and patrick's high school reunion.

Patrick’s not expecting him to show. 

Why would he be? He’s got no idea what Jonny’s doing with his life now, where he lives or works or anything. 

That doesn’t stop him from hoping, though.  

They haven’t spoken in eight years, since they last saw each other at some random college party a couple semesters after graduating high school and going their separate ways. Patrick still has no idea what Jonny was even doing at his university, so far from UND. Their conversation was short, though slightly longer than the drunken, frantic make out and sloppy hand job swap in the bathroom. Patrick was seeing someone at the time, a pretty little thing named Kara, so it didn’t go anywhere, and Jonny disappeared right after. And later that night, so did Patrick’s phone, with Jonny’s number in it, so that was that. 

Patrick still aches about it, somewhere down deep in his chest he never allowed himself to really think about a lot until recently, when the invitation to this thing showed up in his mailbox. 

Now here it is, their ten year reunion, and Patrick can finally admit that he’s still carrying a torch for Jonny, as distant of a memory as it all may seem. He wouldn’t, back when they were young, because things were complicated, and Patrick was–well, figuring things out, figuring himself out. But that’s long over at this point, and if he had it to do again, he would’ve been kissing and swapping handies with Jonny way before sophomore year of college, and after, too; he certainly wouldn’t have let him leave that bathroom all those years ago, and there wouldn’t be eight years separating them. He’d know all about Jonny’s life, because he’d be a part of it, like he was then. 

They were best friends, inseparable. Patrick never meant for things to end up this way. How did they end up this way? 

Patrick gets out of his car, hands fidgety at his sides as he walks into the school, nervous and not knowing what to expect. It still looks the same, smells the same, feels the same; the door still makes that junky, creaking sound when Patrick’s pushes at the handle, about twenty years overdue for a replacement, or at least some WD-40, and the floors are still checkered with their school colors–red and black. 

Patrick passes his and Jonny’s old lockers on the way to the gym, and it all flashes through in his mind again: Jonny bumping their hips together as they got their books, rushing Patrick to hurry so they wouldn’t be late for next period. Patrick was always a little more lackadaisical than him, particularly when it came to getting places on time and paying attention when he got there. Patrick remembers landing Jonny his first detention, for cutting up during a stupid movie in English class; Jonny was so mad, until he wasn’t, and then they were right back at it, smiling and laughing, standing too close and touching too much. 

Patrick should’ve seen it then. 

Just outside the gym entrance, he stops to admire their high school hockey championship trophy in the case and feels his eyes sting. Winning this thing, with Jonny, was one of the best, proudest moments of his life. He never had to twist Patrick’s arm about hockey practice or working tirelessly to get better. That was a thing they were always on the same page about, winning and doing whatever it took to do it. Patrick thinks he misses absolutely everything where Jonny’s concerned, even the occasional bickering, but playing with him–that’s what Patrick misses the most, no question about it. 

Patrick shakes it off and takes a deep breath, opening the gym door, and as soon as he does, he cringes a little. It looks like prom in here. (What a miserable time that was.) People are actually dancing, for fuck’s sake, swaying to and fro in small groups and chit-chatting. There’s a little table just inside, set up to give everyone a name tag, and Patrick approaches hesitantly; he doesn’t recognize the girl behind it, even though she’s smiling at him like she knows exactly who he is. 

“Patrick Kane, how’ve you been!?” she asks cheerily, and Patrick smiles back and answers, trying to play it cool. 

He manages to navigate the conversation without having to clarify who she is–her name tag was unhelpful–and hurting her feelings, thank god; she’s very nice, he sort of wishes he could place her. Patrick tries to sneak a peek at the list she’s holding, to see if he can find some clue about Jonny, but she’s very stingy with it, so he just sticks his tag on and goes to get a drink, too embarrassed to actually ask her. 

He heads to the punch bowl, scanning the room for someone he knows, and kicks himself for not bringing a flask once he gets there. None of his former classmates have spiked it either. What a bunch of lamers. 

Patrick turns back and runs straight into someone–a broad-chested, well dressed someone. Patrick glances up to apologize, and–

“Jonny,” he breathes out, staring into dark brown eyes he’d recognize anywhere, a familiar smirk rising to his mouth with the scar Patrick put there years ago bisecting his top lip. 

Just like that, it all comes rushing back, even stronger than before, a warmth blooming in Patrick’s chest, a nervous tingle beneath his skin. 

“You spike that punch?” Jonny asks casually, nodding to the bowl. 

“I wish,” Patrick sighs, and subtly gives Jonny a once-over. 

To say he looks good would be an egregious understatement. He’s always been attractive, but now, it’s reached next fucking level. 

Jonny’s filled out tremendously, thighs and chest and shoulders testing the limits of his perfectly-fitted suit. His hair’s grown out, longer than Patrick’s ever seen it, just shy of curling around his ears, and it suits him well. He’s not a baby-faced kid anymore, he’s a man, and Patrick wants to put his fingers in that hair, touch him all over to feel the ways he’s changed.  

“How are you, Patrick?” Jonny smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s always had this air of confidence around him, and he’s only settled into as he’s aged, Patrick can tell. He wants to get closer, breathe him in, feel it. 

“I’m–I’m alright, man, I’m good,” Patrick stammers, verging on overwhelmed. “How about you? I didn’t know if you’d show.” 

“Wondering about it, eh?” 

Patrick’s cheeks flush. Of course he was wondering. He doesn’t want to be coy about it anymore. 

“Yeah, I was,” Patrick confirms, and Jonny looks satisfied, but also a little like he doesn’t want Patrick to know it. “It’s been too long.” 

“Yeah?” Jonny wonders aloud, moving to serve himself some punch. Patrick leans against the table to watch, because he can’t help it. 

“Yeah,” he answers solidly. “I’ve–God, way too long, Taze.” 

Jonny sneaks a look at him, corner of his mouth quirking up just slightly at the nickname as he pours the red liquid into his solo cup. So classy, this place. 

“You look good, Peeks.” 

Peeks. Nobody’s called him that in eight years, since Jonny last did. It hits Patrick in a place that’s long been untouched, a place only Jonny knows where to find. 

“You too,” he blushes, subconsciously adjusting his tie with his free hand. “You clean up nicer than I remember.” 

“Because we never did,” Jonny jokes, leaning against the table next to him. “Here by yourself?” 

“Yep,” Patrick replies, popping the ‘p’ and scooting a little closer. “You?” 

“Yep,” Jonny echoes, and Patrick can’t help the words that follow; he’s gotta know. 

“What? No wife? No kids?” 

Jonny laughs into his drink, eyes going wide as he takes a sip, and settles in, finally, shoulder resting against Patrick’s. Jonny’s warm, just as he remembers him always being, and Patrick’s buzzing with it, the place where they’re touching the only thing grounding him. 

“No, not hardly. What about you?” 

“No and absolutely not,” Patrick answers in quick succession, breathing a sigh of relief that Jonny’s said the same, hope sparking inside him. “I work for an engineering firm in New York, building shit, you know.” 

“That’s great, Pat. S’what you always wanted to do, yeah?” Jonny asks, grinning shyly at another mention of the past. 

“You know it,” Patrick replies, nudging him. “You teaching?” 

He remembers Jonny talking about that a lot, volunteering with the local elementary school and stuff, dragging Patrick along; he’s pretty sure education was Jonny’s major, too. 

“And coaching,” Jonny says, and Patrick lights up. 

“Hockey?”

“Yeah,” Jonny nods. “Got a kid on my team that reminds me a lot of you–great hands, doesn’t play a lick of defense.” 

“Oh, c’mon,” Patrick chuckles, only a little offended at Jonny’s teasing. It feels so familiar it hurts. “I did okay.” 

They chat for a while, about school and their old team, about how Patrick never back-checked and how Jonny back-checked (and forechecked) harder than anyone to make up for it, and about the year they won. 

“You miss it?” Jonny asks, looking into Patrick’s eyes, his own sincere and curious, almost longing. For a split second, all Patrick can see is Jonny and all the times he’s looked at Patrick this way, and all the times he missed it or brushed it off out of fear of what this really was. He can see Jonny eight years ago in that bathroom, pressed in close, surrounding him; he can feel how they moved together, how it felt to have Jonny’s mouth on his own. 

“I miss _you,_ Jonny,” Patrick says, slow and serious, and Jonny blushes, diverting his gaze. Patrick can’t believe he said that so clearly, but he can’t make himself regret it either. They’ve wasted too much time already. “Can we, uh, go somewhere and talk? Alone, maybe?” 

“I think we could do that, maybe,” Jonny says, clearing his throat and pushing off the table to lead the way out. Patrick quickly follows behind, silently praying they don’t run into anyone who might want to stop them, eyes on Jonny’s magnificent ass; it’s only gotten bigger and better with time, too. 

Jonny walks them out the doors and down the hallway, right in front of Mrs. Curry’s classroom, the place where Jonny got that first detention. Patrick wonders if he was thinking about it, too, being back here.

Jonny turns to look at him, eyes expectant, but a bit guarded at the same time. They’ve never been that way with each other, but Patrick can understand it now; there’s so much time between them. He can only hope some things have remained the same. 

“Why’s it been so long, Jonny?” Patrick asks, stepping toward him. Jonny steps away at the same moment to settle against the wall, arms linked behind his back, and Patrick wonders if Jonny can see the sting of that deliberate distance on his face.

“You tell me,” Jonny shrugs. “I came to see you, remember?” 

“You, what?” Patrick asks, shaking his head in disbelief. “You what? Why didn’t you? You never said that’s why you were there. Then I–you disappeared, that night.” 

“Patrick,” Jonny starts, an edge of pain in his voice. “Why else would I have been there? You–It was never the same for you. I just figured it out that night, is all.”

The details are a little fuzzy, because Patrick was hammered. He wasn’t expecting Jonny, and what they did–it was a lot; too much and everything Patrick never fully acknowledged he wanted at the same time. Words spoken are a hard to recall, and he freaked out, he’ll admit it, but he doesn’t remember doing anything that would’ve driven Jonny off, other than being in a half-ass relationship at the time. Kissing her, or anyone else for that matter, never felt as good, as satisfying, after Jonny, though; he knows that. 

“We don’t have to do this now,” Jonny adds gently, ducking his gaze when it takes him a minute to respond, and Patrick shakes his head more definitively.

“Yes we fucking do,” he says. “Jonny, I–it’s been the same for me for as long as I can remember, I just–I was slow on the uptake, okay? I’m–God, I’m so sorry.”

“Without this reunion, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation,” Jonny points out, and the truth of it knocks him back a little, but he’s not prepared to go down just yet. 

“We should’ve had it that night, Jonny, or the next day. A long fucking time ago,” Patrick argues. “But why’s it matter what got us here? We are, aren’t we? Am I too?–Do you not?”

Patrick can’t say the words, but he thinks Jonny gets him. 

“I’ve always, Patrick,” he whispers, and Patrick takes that as his opportunity to reach out and grab Jonny’s arm, tug until his hands come free, sliding down until he can tangle their fingers together. 

“I’m sorry, Jonny,” Patrick repeats, squeezing his hand, because he feels it’s important for Jonny to know, not that an apology can ever make up for the time they’ve lost.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Jonny murmurs, finally saying it back from earlier, and he pulls Patrick in until they’re chest-to-chest. Patrick lets his other hand come up to rest on Jonny’s hip as he looks up into his eyes. 

“Can we please stop missing each other?” 

“You tell me,” Jonny shrugs again.

Fuck, he’s so gorgeous, and Patrick can’t stop himself from pushing up on his toes to softly kiss away that uncertainty. It stays that way for a moment, just a gentle press of lips, moving easily together. Jonny squeezes his hand, the other coming up to cradle Patrick’s face, and Patrick moves his hand from Jonny’s waist up to circle his wrist, finally opening his mouth more to let Jonny in, to run his tongue over Jonny’s, then over that little scar; they’ve gotten much better at this, more sure of themselves since last time, and yet it still feels new and exploratory, Patrick’s heart thudding wildly in his chest, a warm tingle running through him like he’s a teenager again. 

It’s not long before they’re breathless, clutching at each other and gasping pleas for more. Patrick can’t get enough, and they’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for. 

Jonny pulls back after a bit and presses their foreheads together, his hand tightening where it rests on Patrick’s neck. 

“If you hadn’t shown up to this thing, Patrick, I swear,” he pants, mouthing at Patrick’s bottom lip, pressing tender kisses along his jawline. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about seeing you, once I got that invitation,” Patrick admits, looping his arms around Jonny’s neck to hold him close, hands roaming appreciatively over the taut muscles of his shoulders. “I’m so fucking sorry, Jonny, sorry I made you think I–” 

“Hey, it’s–I hear you, Peeks, it’s okay,” Jonny cuts him off, and Patrick can hear the smirk in his voice as he continues, “Now, if you had pushed this to the twenty-year, then we might’ve had a real problem.” 

“Would’ve hunted you down before then,” Patrick says, scratching his fingers through Jonny’s hair like he wanted to before. 

“What do you say we hunt down a bathroom for a re-do, eh?” Jonny suggests, pointedly rocking his hips into Patrick’s, the hard line of his dick unmistakable. 

“Still just as lame, I see,” Patrick teases, a shiver running through him despite it. 

“Some stuff never changes,” Jonny says, kissing him again; Patrick hears him loud and clear on that one, and throws all the conviction he can muster into his response. 

“I’m so fucking glad _this_  didn’t.”


	30. handholding 3+1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 times Patrick holds Jonny's hand + 1 time Patrick...holds Jonny's hand some more, but on a very special day.

Patrick’s very into holding hands; it’s a simple fact, even if Jonny’s the only one who truly knows the veracity of it. 

Jonny gets accused of all manner of habitual things where Patrick’s concerned: standing too close, making unmistakably fond eyes, throwing his arm around Patrick and using him as a lean-to. Patrick’s just as bad, but he’s quieter about it, so cool and casual and private that people don’t really pick up on it as easily. 

Jonny’s not to be fooled, though; it’s _his_ hand that Patrick’s constantly holding, after all, so he’s well aware that if there’s ever an opening for Patrick to slide his hand down Jonny’s forearm, reach across the console, or fumble around underneath the covers to twine their fingers together–loosely or tightly, it doesn’t much matter–he’s taking it. 

“Hand, Jon,” he’ll demand, when Jonny’s not paying proper attention. 

And it’s been that way since the very first time. 

****  
 _ **rookie year**_  

Jonny’s livid, too hot in his skin and overcome with disappointment. 

Under normal circumstances, he’d be pacing a trail in the floor, doing push-ups to rid himself of negative energy, but now, with what’s at the very least a sprained knee, he’s stuck fuming atop the trainer’s table with strict instructions not to get down or move too much. 

The team’s falling apart out there, their one-goal lead against the Kings quickly turning into a three-goal deficit at the start of the second period. Jonny doesn’t know his official status just yet, but based on the feel of it, he’s guessing this injury’s going to put him out for weeks, effectively render him useless. He can only watch on the small screen in the corner of the room as they go down 2-6, then 2-7, 2-8, and 2-9 before game’s end, all while being poked and prodded, stretched and bent uncomfortably as his knee screams in protest. 

Patrick’s is the first welcome face Jonny sees through his cloud of misery, and from the looks of it, he’s not doing much better, brow furrowed in worry and post-loss frustration. He’s still in most of his gear, and Jonny goes red all over when Patrick quietly asks the trainer to give them a minute. He nods and steps out easily enough, allowing Patrick the privacy he was looking for to come in close. 

“How bad’s it feel?” he asks, voice low, running his hand up Jonny’s shin to his uninjured knee. Patrick massages it gently by proxy, since he’s probably afraid to make any contact with the other.

“Bad enough,” Jonny shrugs, pulse quickening under Patrick’s soft touch. These feelings for him, this thing blossoming between them, is so new and overwhelming, Jonny barely knows what to do with himself. Patrick’s the only person he wants to see right now, though, and that means something; that’s the extent to which he’s wiling to think about it at the moment. “You’ll have to be–”

“I will be, I promise,” Patrick assures him, squeezing to punctuate his point. He and Patrick are only rookies, but their impact on this team has been undeniable, both solidly in the race for the Calder–or, Jonny was before this, at least. Without him, more pressure will undoubtedly fall on Patrick’s shoulders, and he’ll have to be even better than before. Jonny knows Patrick can take it, but he feels guilty leaving it for him to bear alone just the same. “But don’t be gone too long, okay?” 

As he mumbles the words, he reaches across Jonny’s body to circle his left wrist in a firm grip. Jonny stares into blue, beseeching eyes, framed by unruly, sweaty curls, and nods, but otherwise remains unmoving. 

“I’ll do my best,” he replies morosely, and Patrick sighs, like he’s finally letting go of something he’s sick of holding in, and turns his hand to place overtop of Jonny’s, slotting their fingers together as he leans further into his space. Patrick’s hand is hot and clammy from being inside his glove, but Jonny curls his fingers tightly around Patrick’s anyway. 

Jonny’s breathing is too loud and shaky, so unsure and certain of what Patrick’s going to do next all at once, air thick and anticipatory between them. He wants it, welcomes it like oxygen into his lungs, but he still gasps quietly into Patrick’s mouth when Patrick presses their lips together, fingers like vices around his. His other hand comes up to rest against Jonny’s neck, fingers tickling the short hair at his nape, and Jonny finds the presence of mind to turn his hand over to hold Patrick’s properly, smoothing his thumb over Patrick’s in time with the movement of their mouths. The pain in Jonny’s knee drifts out of focus, secondary to all the places they’re touching, Patrick working to comfort him–comfort them both. 

The kiss is over too quickly, and it certainly wasn’t the scenario in which Jonny envisioned their first one going down, but sometimes you have to play the hand you’re dealt; it was perfectly imperfect, slow and warm and soft, if a touch too dry and apprehensive. When Patrick pulls away to rest their foreheads together, all Jonny can think about is how badly he wants to do it again. 

“I’m sorry about the Calder,” Patrick whispers, “if this costs you it.” 

Jonny brushes their lips together, pushing aside his internal wincing at time and things he might lose because of this injury, and forces himself to smile through it, hand still solidly in Patrick’s, because he hasn’t moved to let go, and Jonny wouldn’t dare. 

“It’s yours anyway, Kaner.” 

Just like I am, Jonny thinks. 

**_2010_ **

The parade bus travels slowly through a sea of red, the crowd roaring on all sides of them and as far down the streets as Jonny can see. Fans are climbing up light poles, sticking their heads out of office windows to cheer and get a glimpse of the Cup as it passes by. 

Jonny hoists it for what feels like the thousandth time, not that he’ll ever tire of it, and the roar grows impossibly louder. Jonny’s smile grows impossibly wider, giddy with victory and a little boozed up. 

This is the dream, and the hand he feels slide to the small of his back, boldly beneath his jersey, only reaffirms that it’s better than Jonny ever thought it could be. He kisses the Cup, then sets it down; Patrick is right there at his side, and Jonny wants to kiss him too, but there are too many eyes and cameras for that. 

Jonny rests his hand on the rim of the Cup, smiling stupid at him, and there will never be too many eyes or cameras to keep Patrick from taking advantage of that, Jonny thinks. Patrick grins brightly back and places his on top, slipping his fingers between Jonny’s, and smooths his thumb over the back of Jonny’s hand. 

“We did it, babe,” Patrick says, wonder in his voice. He pulls Jonny’s hand down to hold it right, shielded by the bodies of their teammates. “Look at all these fuckin’ people.” 

Jonny would, but right now, the only person he cares to look at is Patrick. 

This is the dream. 

**_2014_ **

It stings, being as close as they were to coming back, only to have the wind knocked out of them at the end. 

Without that shitty fucking bounce off Leddy, who’s to say what would’ve happened. They could’ve won. They could’ve repeated. Jonny saw so many scenarios playing out in his head; none of them involved going home empty-handed. But overtime hockey is a coin toss, and sometimes you come up short. Sometimes you don’t have it, even when you think there’s no way in the world you could lose it.

Jonny finds him unintentionally, moving on autopilot after the handshake. Patrick’s eyes are red-rimmed, and he’s tired, visibly drained after the long grind here; exhaustion and previously ignored bumps and bruises catch up quickly when it’s all over. 

He straightens when Jonny approaches, and reaches out, opening his mouth to ask for Jonny’s hand, but he doesn’t have to ask, not right now. Jonny needs it just as badly–to ground him, to ease the tightness in his throat, to keep him from flying apart too soon. 

Patrick takes Jonny’s gloved hand in his own and brings them to his chest, holding on for dear life, fingers flexing sporadically. Patrick swallows, corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he chews on his bottom lip; it’s just a little facial tick he has, made worse when he’s especially upset or nervous, and Jonny wants to kiss him calm, make what’s awful for them both better for him right now. 

“Should’ve hit that fuckin’ net,” he breathes out, barely intelligible over the crowd, regret instantly weighing on him. Patrick knows the responsibility isn’t his to carry by himself, but Jonny reminding him of that now won’t help anything at all, so he just squeezes Patrick’s hand in response. 

They look up to salute the United Center for a final time until next season, and Patrick grips Jonny’s hand tighter, thinking he’s going to pull away to do it. 

“Don’t,” Patrick protests, and Jonny shakes his head. 

“I won’t.” 

**_2025_ **

“So we’re coming in from opposite directions then?–And meeting up top?” Jonny asks the unofficial wedding coordinators–their _mothers_ –confused and sick of this already. 

Wedding rehearsals suck, Jonny’s decided. He just wants to be married, sans headache; that’s it. 

“Uh, wait, no way,” Patrick interjects, pressing against Jonny’s side and clutching his arm. He slides both hands down until he can tangle one together with Jonny’s, fingers loose, and circle his wrist with the other. “How am I s’posed to hold his hand down the aisle if we’re coming in from different places, huh?” 

“Is that some requirement of yours, son?” Donna asks, glancing down at Patrick’s double grip on Jonny. 

“Yes, a nonnegotiable one,” Patrick replies, and Jonny chuckles, leaning in to kiss Patrick’s temple. 

“Yeah, tell ‘em who’s boss, babe,” Jonny murmurs quietly, and his mom pointedly clears her throat.  

“Who is what, Jonathan?” 

Not quietly enough, then. 

“Nothing, maman,” Jonny says, and now Patrick’s the one laughing, shaking his head at Jonny’s perpetual unwillingness to cross his mother, even at thirty-seven. He doesn’t let go of Jonny’s hand, though. 

-

Not then, and not throughout their entire ceremony the next day, either, as the minister goes on about love and life and spending it together. 

Patrick releases him only to get Jonny’s ring, placing it on his finger with trembling hands, and to receive his own, before lacing them together again, squeezing tightly. He fiddles nervously with Jonny’s fingers as he talks in a shaky voice about “holding these beautiful hands until they’re old and wrinkly.” 

He never lets go, and as they kiss, in front of their family and friends to seal the deal, Jonny relishes the feeling of Patrick’s hands in his, of that tiny, cool piece of metal encircling his finger that means forever, even though Jonny knew long ago that’s what this was. 

****

Patrick’s very into holding hands. 

And Jonny’s loved it more each time, since the very first time. 


	31. edging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jonny can wait...

…Jonny can wait. 

He has been, for the last forty-five minutes. 

His head is thrown back against the pillows, throat working in time with Patrick’s hand on his dick, his fingers in Jonny’s ass, relentlessly stroking his prostate. He pulls at his restraints, the tension of the rope and the resulting bite in his wrists somehow easing the building tightness in his body, though he can’t slip them; he wouldn’t, even if he could. 

Jonny broke a sweat around the ten-minute mark, and now, he’s reached that point where he almost feels chilly, shaky as the air in the room cools the moisture that glistens over his arms, chest, and face. 

He’s impossibly hard, leaking all over the place, dick swollen and angry red, just like the rest of him. He’s flushed from head to toe, he must be; thighs trembling with the effort of staving off his orgasm, that unending pressure in his gut sending shocks through his whole body when Patrick hits that sweet spot inside him. 

Patrick massages pre-come into Jonny’s foreskin, works it gently into the soft, smooth head, because he likes to tease, and it’s okay, because Jonny likes the teasing.

“How you doin’ up there, baby?” Patrick asks, a smirk in his voice, despite that gravely, unmistakable breathiness that means he’s beyond turned on himself. Patrick gets off on this, too; Jonny knows it to be true. 

“Wanna–an hour,” Jonny gasps, balls tightening as Patrick brings him close, just rubbing against his prostate over and over and over, then backs him down again, ceasing his movements on Jonny’s dick and slowing his fingers inside to a slow, tortuous pace, avoiding his prostate altogether. Jonny writhes under the touch, straining to collect himself for the next rise and fall. 

It’s euphoric almost, being that close to what his body so desperately wants, and then finding the will to just…not. Patrick’s so good at making it perfect for him; he knows just how far to take it before letting up, riding that narrow line of no return, then easing Jonny away from it. 

It makes it that much better when he finally lets go and crosses it. 

“Hmmm,” Patrick murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to Jonny’s inner thigh from his place between them. “Just an hour, huh? That all you got?” 

Jonny likes to be pushed, too; Patrick knows it to be true. 

“And a half,” Jonny rasps defiantly, squeezing his eyes shut as Patrick starts in again, fighting to keep his breathing as steady as he can under the circumstances. 

“Yeahhh, Jon,” Patrick praises, stroking Jonny’s dick languidly, thick fingers working his already loose rim, and he shivers with it, curling his toes and clenching his hands into fists. 

Jonny can wait…


	32. rookie pining/fake dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> summer after rookie year/UND friend's wedding

Patrick saw this coming. 

He didn’t anticipate that it’d feel quite like this, though; that it’d hit him as hard as it’s hitting him now, watching Jonny talk to this fucking dick who doesn’t deserve him.

Jonny moped about him on and off all season, his stupid ex-boyfriend from UND. He’d text Jonny randomly, some bullshit ‘i miss u’ after Jonny had a good game, and it’d send him spiraling all over again. Patrick would have to drag him out of it every time, cheer him up after the dude didn’t respond for weeks. 

What a piece of shit. 

Patrick agreed to come to this wedding with Jonny for a few reasons. 

The first: Because Jonny asked him to, and he’d do pretty much anything Jonny asked. “Jordan’s going to be there,” Jonny’d said nervously, and let it hang there between them, waiting for Patrick to offer himself up as a jealousy sacrifice or something. 

The second reason: Patrick’s a glutton for punishment, apparently, so he did just that. 

“You want to, what? Pretend we’re dating or something? Make him jealous?” Patrick supplied, a careful, practiced smile plastered to his face, elbowing Jonny playfully in the ribs. 

“You’d do that for me?” Jonny asked fondly; Patrick remembers watching his cheeks flush beautifully and wishing so painfully hard that it was the right kind of fondness, the same kind he feels for Jonny in return. 

“Sure, man,” Patrick answered easily.

_Anything_ , he thought. 

The third reason, which is closely tied in with the second: Patrick hopes. 

He allows himself to hope too much, if he’s honest. Those times this season, in between Jonny’s moping, it was easy to do it. He and Jonny had such an effortless thing between them, and sure they fought like hell on ice sometimes, but if Patrick ever said he’d pick another person to do what they’re trying to accomplish with–establish themselves in the league, attempt to revive a franchise and a whole city’s attitude about hockey–he’d be totally and completely lying. 

He fell in love this year, twice–with the game, again, playing on a line with Jonny as a Blackhawk, and with Jonny. 

So, yeah, Patrick hoped that maybe, just maybe, coming to this wedding would wake Jonny up to what’s right in front of him, that he’d decide to want Patrick back instead of wasting his time on an old flame who wouldn’t know a great thing if it punched him in the fucking face–which Patrick might do, if the situation calls for it. 

When they arrived at the wedding reception, Patrick could feel Jonny tense up beside him, scanning the room for Jordan. It stung a little, that Jonny was still looking for him, even if that was the whole point, because Patrick felt they’d had a good time, that maybe Jonny was starting to forget. 

Jonny didn’t spot him immediately, thank god, so they had a couple drinks, sat much too close to each other, per usual, laughing and talking and making fun of people’s dancing, though neither of them are any better at it. For a moment, Patrick was able to forget that they’re not actually dating, that they’re not actually the only two people here, because that’s what it felt like. 

Especially when Jonny curled his fingers around Patrick’s beside them, then slotted them together. 

Patrick hoped then, even more so than before, because their hands were hidden by the table. Whose benefit was that for? Jordan couldn’t see, if he were even looking. 

To Patrick, it was for them; he wanted so badly for it to be for them. 

“Dance with me?” Jonny asked shyly, much to Patrick’s surprise. He couldn’t find any words, so he nodded instead, just allowed Jonny to tug him up out of his seat and onto the floor. 

Patrick had never danced that way before, with a guy, but they adjusted, shuffling slowly together to some rom-com love song, Patrick’s hands joined behind Jonny’s neck and Jonny gripping at his hips. Their foreheads were close enough to touch almost, if Patrick had only leaned up just slightly, but he didn’t; his heart was already about to hammer out of his chest as it was, skin prickling hot beneath his suit. 

It was a perfect lie that Patrick let himself live in, until–

“Jordan’s over there,” Jonny said eventually, totally casual, and Patrick couldn’t help but notice that Jonny’d barely broken eye contact. “I think he sees us, but I–” 

Jonny paused, and Patrick didn’t know what for, so he took the opportunity to do something he’d been holding in for a long time–a last ditch effort to fight for Jonny in a way that could also be interpreted as trying to help. 

Patrick pushed up on his toes and kissed him, slow and sweet. He wrapped his arms fully around Jonny neck, shivering when Jonny’s wound around his waist. Jonny groaned into it, tightening his hold, and Patrick’s pulse raced so wildly, if Jonny hadn’t been there to hold him, his knees might’ve buckled. 

Patrick’d been involved in a few kisses before, but none like that. There was nothing fake about it–not on his end, anyway. He forced all his withheld emotions into it, and for the second time that night, it felt like they were the only two in the room. 

Jonny was breathing heavy when he finally pulled away, eyes wide and searching. 

“Patrick,” he whispered, and Patrick held his breath to wait for him to continue, hoping, until– 

“Jonny,” came a surprised voice. “I thought that was you!”  

Jonny looked away from Patrick, chest still heaving erratically from their kiss–their first kiss–and Patrick swallowed down his disappointment; that’s how this was supposed to happen. 

“Yeah, man,” Jonny answered politely, Jordan standing next to them. What a dick. “It’s me.” 

“Can we talk for a second?” Jordan asked, clearly unapologetic about the interruption. Jonny’s hand flexed on Patrick’s hip, a moment of hesitance, before Patrick just spared him the trouble. 

“Go on, Jon,” Patrick said, “I’ll just be at our table.” 

“You’re sure?” Jonny added, and Patrick nodded along with Jonny’s assurance that he’d be right back. 

And that’s how Patrick found himself here, alone at their table, watching Jonny talk to this fucking dick who doesn’t deserve him. 

It’s been two minutes, and Jonny’s glanced over at Patrick at least ten times; he’s been counting, because what else does Patrick have to do, besides stew in his misery?

He doesn’t know what to make of the glancing, but he does know that this was so fucking stupid, an epic fail of an idea. 

Patrick can still feel Jonny’s mouth on his, and it hurts. This will hurt for some time, Patrick knows. He’s spiraling, just like Jonny used to, chest tight and eyes stinging, until–

Jonny gestures to him pointedly, practically turns Jordan in his direction. Patrick doesn’t fancy himself an excellent lip-reader, but he thinks he catches the words “I’m sorry” and “boyfriend” come out of Jonny’s mouth. 

Patrick’s heartbeat kicks up again, as Jonny obviously dismisses himself from the conversation and heads back in his direction, a bashful smile on his face as he meets Patrick’s eyes. He looks like a man who’s seen the light. 

Patrick hopes, this time, that all his hoping has finally paid off. 

**Author's Note:**

> *shrugs* 
> 
> i'm on tumblr @ [toewsme1988](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com).


End file.
